


Unfortunate Mistakes

by Celticgal1041



Series: Mistakes [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Brotherhood, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-16
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-08-31 10:52:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 73,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8575525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celticgal1041/pseuds/Celticgal1041
Summary: The Gascon was still looking away and Athos found himself wishing he could see the young man's eyes as he waited for an answer. "I didn't want anyone else to suffer for another of my unfortunate mistakes."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my newest story, which is a sequel of sorts to Mistaken Identity. Although I've been working on this one since Mistaken Identity wrapped up, real life and several other fics conspired against me and made finishing this one a slower process than expected. I'm happy to finally be able to start posting it, and even though this story refers to events that happened in Mistaken Identity, I don't believe it's necessary to read that one - of course, I won't stop you if you'd like to give it a try as well. 
> 
> Also, thanks go to AZGirl for her invaluable beta skills and her encouragement and support throughout the writing of this fic. Updates will be daily, with the exception of Saturdays due to work commitments over the coming weeks. Hope you enjoy!

It had been subtle at first, small shifts in their behaviours and attitudes, but over time wide cracks had formed between them.

 

It began the week after they’d returned to the garrison following their disheartening mission to Savoy, which had seen Aramis injured not once but twice, the second time as a result of being mistaken for one of the supposedly Spanish bandits terrorizing the village and surrounding areas. d’Artagnan had been racked with guilt when he’d found out what had happened, blaming himself for having left the man alone to pursue Athos and Porthos and share vital information with them. Although they’d all absolved him of all culpability, the feelings persisted and worsened as the slight infection Aramis had incurred to his burned leg grew progressively worse, fueling the fever that gripped him and sapped him of his strength.

 

With each hour that passed, the trio surrounding Aramis’ bed grew increasingly more sombre, and by the third day, Athos and Porthos no longer tried to alleviate the young man’s guilt, the looks passing between the two stating more loudly than any words could that they blamed the boy for having left the marksman alone to fend for himself. For a week, Aramis lay in fevered delirium, battling the infection that gripped him and threatened his life, unaware of his brothers’ deteriorating relationships as they cared for him.

 

By the time that the marksman’s situation began to improve, the two older Musketeers were managing only the briefest of conversations with the Gascon, despite reason telling them that the young man was not at fault, but their fear for Aramis driving them to irrationally place the blame at his feet. For his part, d’Artagnan did nothing to dissuade them from their beliefs, feeling that their accusations were accurately placed and that he was deserving of the treatment he now received. When it became clear that Aramis would recover, the Gascon began to distance himself from the trio, completing extra duties at the garrison, or taking his horse out for long rides in the countryside, ostensibly to allow the two men more time alone with the marksman as he improved.

 

A part of him had hoped that Athos or Porthos would come looking for him, especially at first, but as the days passed and no one came, he accepted that this would be his new reality. Where their off-duty hours had previously been filled with humour and camaraderie, d’Artagnan’s days were now filled with loneliness and increasing despair. Still, he clung onto the thinnest strand of hope that things would change, and it seemed that his faith was to be rewarded when one of the men from the garrison tracked him down just after morning muster to deliver a message from Aramis – the marksman wanted to see him.

 

The medic had been healing well since his fever had finally broken, but it had left him weak and confined to bed, the physician not yet confident that the injured Musketeer was well enough to be up and about. He had, however, made one concession and allowed the man to move from the infirmary and return to his own room, something that d’Artagnan had managed to find out from the doctor two nights ago when he’d visited the infirmary to surreptitiously check on his friend. As he stood outside the door to the marksman’s room, his stomach rolled uncomfortably with anxiety, and his feet nearly carried him away before he found the courage to knock.

 

“Come,” a voice called from within, and the Gascon’s hand trembled as he pushed the door open and walked through. He managed only two steps before his fortitude fled and he faltered, coming to a standstill as he got his first view of Aramis in several days. The marksman was much paler than his normally healthy complexion, and the weight he’d lost during his illness was obvious in the sharp planes of his face though his dark eyes were clear. He smiled as d’Artagnan drank in the sight of him, and the young man couldn’t help but smile back.

 

“d’Artagnan, it’s good to see you,” Aramis said, reaching a hand out and inviting his friend to come closer.

 

The Gascon closed the distance, and when the marksman motioned to a chair at his bedside, he gingerly lowered himself into it, his back ramrod straight and his weight balanced just at the edge of the seat. The two were silent for several seconds until d’Artagnan regained his ability to speak, uncertain what he could possibly say to make up for everything Aramis had suffered because of his negligence. “It’s good to see you feeling better,” he offered, the words genuine in his relief that his friend was improving.

 

Aramis offered one of his charming smiles, the effect not diminished at all by the fact that he was clearly still regaining his strength. “Come now, you act as though I was at death’s door,” he teased.

 

d’Artagnan’s breath hitched and he blanched at his friend’s words, the marksman having been so close to passing that he’d likely had a foot over the threshold of the reaper’s domain. Trying to cover up his reaction, he let out a small cough as he struggled to find the right words, finally settling on the truth. “I believe there are those who would contradict you.”

 

The look on the marksman’s face demonstrated that he was fully aware of how dire his condition had been, but was refusing to dwell on it. “No matter, I’m fine now.”

 

With a shy grin, the Gascon countered his friend’s words. “Perhaps on the mend would be a more accurate description.”

 

Aramis sighed and shrugged. “If it makes you feel better, then we’ll go with that. Now, tell me, what’s kept you so busy this past week that you’ve been unable to come by and visit?"

 

The question was asked innocently enough, but d’Artagnan couldn’t help wonder what the marksman was implying. His mind raced with the many possible ways he could answer, discarding each response as quickly as it struck. _I couldn’t bear to watch you suffer knowing that I’d caused this. Athos and Porthos didn’t want me around, and with good reason, so I honored their wishes. I found myself alone even when at your bedside with the others, and it finally became more than I could stand._ The thoughts that swirled through his mind were a painful reminder of how difficult his self-imposed exile had been.

 

“d’Artagnan,” Aramis’ voice broke through his reverie and he pulled himself back to the conversation. With effort, he focused his attention on the medic, who repeated his question. “Have you been away on a mission?” The marksman’s face was now genuinely curious, with just a touch of concern, and the Gascon realized that the others hadn’t been forthcoming about his absence.

 

“What did Athos and Porthos tell you?” he queried, proud that he’d managed to keep his voice steady.

 

Aramis’ brows furrowed in confusion at the question. “Nothing much really, just that you weren’t around.” Watching the young man carefully, the marksman pressed, “d’Artagnan, is there something going on that I should be aware of?”

 

The Gascon was quick to shake his head. “No, they’re right, I just haven’t been around.”

 

The medic didn’t seem wholly satisfied with the answer, but was willing to accept it for now. “So, you’ll be around more now?” he asked hopefully. “I’m not allowed out for another day or two, and I’m certain I’ll die of boredom if I don’t at least have someone to come and visit me.”

 

d’Artagnan hastened to assure his friend as he said, “I’m sure Athos and Porthos won’t let that happen.”

 

Aramis gave a low snort as he countered the Gascon’s words. “They’ve been fussing like a pair of old women. In truth, their attentions have been suffocating me.”

 

With what he hoped was an encouraging smile, he said, “I’m sure they’ll be better now that you’re improving.”

 

Before Aramis could disagree, his door opened and Athos stepped through, stopping abruptly just as d’Artagnan had. He was far quicker to recover though. “d’Artagnan, the Captain was looking for you downstairs. I believe you were ordered to inventory the muskets today.”

 

The young man’s eyes dipped to the ground for a moment before he lifted them again, mumbling a quiet good-bye to Aramis before darting swiftly through the still-open doorway.

 

Aramis’ gaze was still fixed on the empty threshold, shaking his head in wonder at how quickly the young man had left. “What was all that about?” he asked the older man.

 

Athos simply closed the door behind him as he replied, “I’m sure I have absolutely no idea.” 

* * *

Athos knew that he was treating d’Artagnan unfairly, and as much as he wanted to stop and simply return to the ease of their earlier relationship, he just couldn’t seem to manage it. It was as though something significant had irrevocably shifted in such an extreme fashion that resurrecting the past was an impossibility. He realized that his feelings weren’t the only ones that had changed, Porthos’ behaviour mirroring his own as the stress of caring for their injured and incredibly sick friend had taken its toll on both of them. Surprisingly, as their treatment of d’Artagnan worsened, the more the young man seemed to berate himself, as though believing himself at fault as well and welcoming the punishment of his friends’ withdrawal.

 

They were barely exchanging words by the time that Aramis’ life hung precariously in the balance, none of the men willing to leave his side as they expected each breath to be his last. Even then, the Gascon had done everything in his power to defer to his friends’ wishes, being the one to leave for short periods of time to refresh water or provide updates to the Captain, allowing Athos and Porthos to continue their vigil at the marksman’s bedside.

 

When it became clear that Aramis would recover, d’Artagnan removed himself completely, not participating in any part of the injured man’s care, nor taking meals with them on the odd occasion they would find themselves outside while the physician conducted his examinations. In fact, the young man was nowhere in sight and, remarkably, the only emotion that Athos had experienced was relief.

 

When Aramis had become sufficiently coherent to recognize his surroundings and the passage of time, he’d made his first inquiry about the Gascon’s absence, which both Athos and Porthos replied to noncommittally, trusting that the marksman’s awareness was not yet adequate to realize that neither man was really answering. A couple of days later, Aramis pointedly asked about d’Artagnan’s whereabouts, and Porthos had managed something about the young man not being around enough to be able to visit. The reply had caused the marksman to frown, but he was still easily enough distracted that he hadn’t pursued it. Neither man had expected that Aramis would take things into his own hands and send another in search of the wayward Gascon.

 

The sight of d’Artagnan in Aramis’ room had initially filled Athos will cheer, having missed the boy’s presence as he’d steadfastly kept away from them. The feeling was fleeting, however, and rapidly overshadowed by anger and blame at the young man’s actions, and Athos hardened his heart against his initial instincts for reconciliation. Instead, he’d said the first words that had come to mind, making up an excuse about Treville to get d’Artagnan out of the room and out of his sight. Aramis had commented on the Gascon’s unaccountably swift departure, no doubt having noticed the young man’s flush of red at Athos’ words.

 

Although the marksman wasn’t yet permitted out of bed in deference to his weakened state, there was nothing the matter with his eyes, which narrowed at the older Musketeer who was pretending that the boy’s dash from the room was nothing out of the ordinary. It was now Athos who felt shame at how he’d handled the conversation that followed.

 

_“You have absolutely no idea?” Aramis repeated the older man’s words in disbelief. “Did you fall blind and deaf while I’ve been in this bed?” Athos at least had the grace to appear uncomfortable at the marksman’s question, but it didn’t excuse him from Aramis’ scrutiny. “Well,” he pressed, “have you nothing more to add?”_

_It was not something that he did with his fellow Musketeers, and especially not with his closest friends, but Athos channeled his inner noble as he drew himself up straighter and said, “Perhaps the physician should be summoned to check your temperature; your perception seems impaired.”_

_The delivery of the words was more shocking than the words themselves, and Aramis stiffened at the condescension he’d detected in his friend’s tone. Refusing to allow himself to be so easily dissuaded from his objective, he changed tact. “Perhaps the physician can examine you while he’s here.” The marksman’s voice was sweet, but the underlying tone was hard and served as a warning to Athos to stop playing word games._

_Finally crossing the distance between them to take the seat recently vacated by the Gascon, Athos lowered himself down and took a moment to compose his thoughts. Deciding to settle on at least a modicum of the truth, he asked, “What do you wish to know?”_

_With a faint smile of satisfaction, the marksman repeated his earlier question, “Tell me, what’s going on with d’Artagnan? It’s unlike him to be so absent when one of us has been injured.”_

_It was impossible to refute Aramis’ statement, and a dozen occasions jumped to mind when the young man had spent every waking moment tending to one of their group after they’d been hurt. It was in the boy’s nature; he was fiercely loyal, almost to a fault, not even being swayed by reason when it was pointed out to him that he needed proper food and rest. Gauging his reply carefully, Athos answered, “I believe he feels guilty at the part he played in recent events.”_

_Aramis sputtered at the older man’s reply, looking at him incredulously. “Why on earth would he feel guilty? I told him a dozen times that it wasn’t his fault. Surely you and Porthos have done the same?”_

_Athos’ eyes skittered away as the medic identified the real crux of the problem - not only had they not discouraged d’Artagnan’s beliefs, but they’d encouraged them. At the older man’s silence, the marksman’s eyes widened and his face shadowed in sadness. “Oh, Athos.” The words were spoken quietly, barely above a whisper, but the disappointment in them was enough to have the older man flinching as they dropped._

_Silence fell over the room as Athos steadfastly examined a spot on one wall, unable to meet Aramis’ gaze while the medic appeared thoughtful as he considered what he’d discovered. Drawing a deep breath, the marksman spoke, “I’m so sorry, Athos.”_

_The words caught the older Musketeer by surprise and had him snapping his head back towards his ailing friend, reminded again how bad things had been when he gazed at the man’s gaunt face. “What could you possibly have to apologize for?” he managed._

_“I knew it was bad, but I didn’t realize…” Aramis started, trailing off a moment later. “It must have been a very difficult time for you both.”_

_The lump that appeared in Athos’ throat threatened to choke him, and speaking was not an option. The expression on Aramis’ face was full of understanding and compassion, the medic recognizing how scared they had been for his life and how poorly they’d behaved as a result. Instead of condemnation, all he could feel was the marksman’s forgiveness, and he quickly looked away, once more mortified at his and Porthos’ actions. He finally managed a nod in reply, Aramis reaching forward to grasp his hand. Athos made a half-hearted attempt to pull away, but the medic simply tightened his hold and pulled the older man’s hand closer, clasping it in both of his._

_They sat in that manner for quite some time, Aramis giving his friend the opportunity to process what had happened while Athos considered what might happen next. It was the slackening of the medic’s grip that broke the older man from his thoughts, alerting him to the fact that the injured man was tiring. A glance at Aramis’ slumping posture and half-lidded eyes confirmed that the man needed to rest, and the conversation they’d had would not have helped his overall condition. Squeezing the marksman’s hand, Athos wormed his way gently from his friend’s grip and then stood slowly, leaning forward to pull a pillow out from behind Aramis’ back so he could lay down._

_“Athos, you must fix this,” the medic stated wearily, his body already beginning to relax into his mattress._

_“And you need your rest,” Athos deflected as he pulled Aramis’ blanket up higher to cover his chest._

_The marksman was determined and fought the pull of sleep as he reached out again for Athos’ hand. “Please, Athos, promise me; promise you’ll make things right between you.” The exhaustion in no way dimmed the resolve in the marksman’s eyes, and Athos swallowed thickly at the plea his friend was making._

_“I’ll consider it,” the older man finally replied, disengaging his captured hand once more as he straightened. The flash of disappointment on Aramis’ face had been expected, but that hadn’t lessened its impact at all. Unable to give his friend what he so desperately wanted, Athos said, “Rest, Aramis. One of us will be back to check on you later.” With that, the older man turned away and exited the room, Aramis watching sadly as his body gave in to the unrelenting need for sleep._

 

Athos had wanted more than anything to assuage his friend’s concerns, but found himself unready to make amends with the Gascon, the taste of the medic’s near-death still too fresh to ignore. The best he could do was consider that they may have been wrong - that d’Artagnan’s decision hadn’t nearly caused the death of one of their dearest friends – and perhaps that would be enough to set them all onto the path of healing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the older man watched them walk away, he felt a pang of sadness at the ease with which the large man expressed his affection for the boy, wishing again that he could trade places with his friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the lovely welcome this story received in the form of comments and kudos. Your thoughts are always appreciated and I look forward to hearing what you think of this chapter. As always, thanks go to AZGirl for her great beta skills.

d’Artagnan had found himself trembling after his encounter with Athos in Aramis’ room, the surge of adrenaline, prompted by the shock of the man’s words, unsettling him more than he’d wanted to admit. When he’d been summoned to the marksman’s room, it had given him hope that his relationship with the trio might still be salvageable, having missed the company of his friends dearly during his self-imposed exile. Athos’ initial expression had reinforced the idea that the Gascon’s hope might not be misplaced, only to be dashed moments later when the older man’s hard stare and cold words dispelled any thoughts of reconciliation.

 

Perhaps he was overreacting, d’Artagnan consoled himself, allowing that Athos must have been just as stunned by their impromptu meeting as he had been. There had been times in the past when the normally unflappable Musketeer had been shaken by events, and it was possible this was simply another of those times, the young man reasoned. But no matter how hard he tried to convince himself, his heart despaired at the abruptness of his dismissal; it was almost as though Athos wanted him away from Aramis as quickly as possible, lest the Gascon once more bring harm to the injured man. The thought was absurd, of course, and d’Artagnan would do anything to change the past and trade places with the marksman if he could, but no amount of wishing could make it so.

 

Athos and Porthos had clearly passed judgement and found him wanting; he’d been unable to protect his friend, and worse yet, had enjoyed his time with the other two while Aramis had been imprisoned without a trial, being beaten and sentenced to die simply because he’d happened to pray in his mother’s native language. d’Artagnan’s head dropped to his chest as he closed his eyes against the hot tears that threatened to fall, gasping at the injustice of what his friend had been forced to endure. Another round of shivers racked his slight frame, and he clasped his arms around himself in a pitiful attempt to comfort himself against the guilt he carried over Aramis’ injuries.

 

It was no use - he could not fault Athos and Porthos for their beliefs, especially since he agreed with them, and his mind turned again to the image of Aramis’ bruised and bloodied body when they’d discovered him, about to be burned alive, the flames already eating at his friend’s skin. A vision of the marksman’s scorched leg appeared magically before his eyes and had him bent nearly double as he retched, his stomach forcefully expelling the meagre amount of food he’d consumed in the last day.

 

When he was finished, he swiped a hand unsteadily across his mouth, ignoring how the limb shook from weakness and stress. Inhaling as deeply as he could, he affected a neutral expression, wiping a sleeve across his brow to remove the sweat that dotted it. Straightening, he took one last deep breath before covering his sickness with dirt and made his way around the back of the barn to do as Athos had instructed. 

* * *

That evening found Porthos and Athos both back in Aramis’ room, the three men having shared a somewhat strained meal together while the marksman continually threw meaningful looks at his friends. Neither of the men acknowledged what was remaining unsaid, however, and Aramis eventually huffed and closed his eyes in exasperation, deciding to escape the stubbornness of his comrades by faking sleep. His body had other ideas though, and soon Aramis was breathing deeply as his body rested. Porthos smiled affectionately as he said, “I knew he wouldn’t be able to stay awake for long.”

 

Athos nodded as Aramis’ need for sleep again reminded him of how close they’d come to losing the man. Turning more serious, Porthos continued. “I heard d’Artagnan came to see Aramis earlier.” The older man dipped his head in acknowledgement, but stayed silent, still unsettled by his reaction to seeing the boy. “Aramis wants us to forgive him?” Porthos asked, but both men knew there was little doubt as to the marksman’s position.

 

The large man scrubbed a hand across his face as he blew out a long breath. “Not sure I’m ready to just put things behind us,” he admitted and then paused for a moment. “And, yet, I don’t know why this is botherin’ me so much.” Pinning Athos with an imploring stare he said, “We both forgave him after Aramis was rescued. What caused that to change?”

 

It was the same question that had been plaguing Athos’ thoughts, and he gave the only answer he had to offer. “Because it was too close.” He fell quiet for several seconds, Porthos also allowing the silence to stretch between them. Finally, Athos spoke again, “It was too close and d’Artagnan is still relatively inexperienced. The combination made it easy for us to place blame where none should exist.”

 

Porthos was nodding thoughtfully as he wrestled with his own views and fears about what had transpired, “We would ‘ave done the same in his place; hell, we even told him so afterwards.” Sighing deeply once more, he stated softly, “Makes us quite the hypocrites, don’t it.”

 

Athos didn’t reply, but offered instead, “Aramis begged me to promise to make things right.”

 

Porthos’ eyes darted to the sleeping man, a ghost of a smile on his lips at the man’s predictability. “Think we can?” There was a touch of sadness in his tone and Athos’ recognized immediately where it stemmed from, his own anxiety about being able to atone for their actions towards the Gascon having plagued his mind for the majority of the day.

 

Offering a small shrug, he said, “All we can do is try our best.”

 

The words lacked the confident reassurance that Porthos was seeking but, he admitted, it was perhaps no less than what they deserved after their mistreatment of the young man. Whether they wanted to admit it or not, they had all made mistakes and this would be one that they would all learn from. Further, it was only after the marksman’s health had taken such a severe turn for the worse that they’d reflected on events and determined that none of them should be left alone, regardless of the circumstances. d’Artagnan had other options he could have pursued, which would not have required him to leave the recovering man’s side. It made no difference that Aramis saw no error in judgement, since the other three had already decided that leaving one man alone was a folly that would never again be repeated.

 

“We should talk to him,” Porthos stated, interrupting Athos’ ruminations. The older man hummed in agreement but made no move to get up, since the hour was late and they were both tired. Offering a small grin, the larger man finished. “We’ll talk to him tomorrow, after we’ve gotten a good night’s sleep.”

 

Athos’ lips quirked in response at his friend’s perceptiveness. They were both still weary from the countless hours they’d spent at the marksman’s side, and the fact that he was now improving hadn’t put a dent in their desire to care for his every need, despite the toll it was taking on them. The dawn would bring a new day, and with it, an opportunity to set things right between themselves and d’Artagnan. Athos could only hope the Gascon was in a forgiving mood. 

* * *

They were still officially off duty, Treville having been generous with the time he’d given them to care for Aramis while he was recovering. Despite that, Porthos and Athos had begun to appear during morning muster if for no other reason than to have a sense of goings-on at the garrison. The following morning was no different, the two men having first checked on Aramis and ensured he’d eaten breakfast, after which Porthos remained to help him with his morning ablutions. By the time they’d finished, the physician had arrived, and the large man went down to the courtyard to join Athos as Treville addressed the men and handed out assignments.

 

Unsurprisingly, d’Artagnan was kept at the garrison to train, the Captain not fully aware of the discord that was threatening to split one of their members from their tightly-knit group, and believing that the young man would want to stay close while Aramis was still convalescing. As the Gascon moved toward the practice range, the two Musketeers got their first proper look at the young man, having skillfully avoided contact with each other for days except for Athos’ brief run-in with the boy the day prior.

 

They were stunned at the apparent deterioration of the young man’s health as they watched him walk slowly away, his shoulders bowed and his lank hair hanging across his face as he kept his eyes to the ground. Everything in his countenance spoke of a broken spirit, a description the two would never have considered associating with the passionate Gascon. “What the hell happened to him?” Porthos asked in amazement, the young, fit soldier they knew replaced by a barely recognizable shell.

 

Athos swallowed as he recalled the hurt in the Gascon’s eyes the previous day, and the way in which the boy had stammered a reply, as though in fear of him. “We happened,” he breathed out.

 

“Christ,” Porthos swore softly, a hand tugging at his curls as the enormity of their actions landed on his shoulders. “Come on,” he said, pulling at Athos’ arm and striding determinedly after the young man who was waiting his turn to fire his pistol. “d’Artagnan.” Porthos laid a hand on the Gascon’s shoulder as they approached from behind, making him startle badly at their unexpected presence.

 

He turned quickly to face them, dropping his eyes seconds later before raising them again, his expression morphing quickly from surprise to fear. “Aramis?” he asked, hating the quiver in his voice.

 

“What?” Porthos questioned, needing a moment before comprehending d’Artagnan’s query. “No,” he replied evenly when it dawned on him that the young man believed they were there because the marksman’s condition had deteriorated. “He’s fine. It’s you we’re here to see.”

 

The Gascon was akin to a skittish deer, and his eyes darted between the two men as he awaited some other form of bad news, his shoulders tense and his body primed to bolt as soon as the men’s intentions became clear. “d’Artagnan,” Athos’ low, soothing tone interjected, “we’re here to…”

 

His words were cut short as another of the men called out, “d’Artagnan, your turn. Come on, then, you’re holding up the line.”

 

The Gascon looked at the man who’d called and nodded, glancing back briefly at Athos and Porthos before positioning himself, taking aim and squeezing the trigger. The ball went badly off target and he flinched as he realized how poor his shot had been. The Musketeers around him lost no time in laughing loudly at his incompetence, and his face flushed with embarrassment at the disparaging comments being tossed his way.

 

Porthos scowled at the group of men as Athos took d’Artagnan’s arm and led him away, wanting to finish their conversation and understanding fully that the young man’s poor performance was their fault. When they were far enough away that the sound of the men’s jeering could no longer be heard, Athos stopped and gently turned the Gascon so he was facing the two Musketeers. The young man’s face was still shadowed by trepidation, and the older man swallowed his frustration at the fact that he’d played a large part in the young man’s current state. “d’Artagnan, what I was trying to say earlier is that we wanted to apologize for how we’ve been acting.”

 

The look of disbelief on the Gascon’s face had Porthos hurrying to add, “It’s true. We behaved badly and it was unfair of us to blame you for Aramis getting hurt. The worse he got, the easier it was to lash out at you.”

 

d’Artagnan swallowed thickly, his gaze once more dancing between the two men, and he gave a short nod as he replied, “It’s alright, Porthos, it _was_ my fault. If I hadn’t left, Aramis wouldn’t have been in that church to begin with. It was foolish of me to leave him alone.”

 

“No, d’Artagnan, it wasn’t foolish, it was your duty,” Athos countered, reigning in the sigh of frustration that bubbled in his chest.

 

Seeing the irritation rising in Athos’ expression, Porthos interjected, “Look, none of us are happy about what happened, but the truth is that our duty is more important than any of us. It’s not pleasant, but it is the reality of a soldier’s life. We swore an oath to serve King and country, and no one man’s life can be held above that.”

 

“Porthos is correct, d’Artagnan,” Athos confirmed, placing a warm hand on the young man’s shoulder. “It could have happened to any one of us, and if we face the same situation in the future, we’ll have no choice but to make a similar decision, regardless of the personal consequences. It is the choice we made when we accepted our commissions.”

 

The Gascon’s heart was racing at what he was hearing, having believed wholeheartedly that he was to blame for Aramis’ injuries and for the penance he now paid through the loss of his friends. He’d spent countless sleepless hours berating himself and wishing he’d made a different decision, considering all of the other options he could have pursued, and rationalizing why each of them would have been better than the path he’d actually taken. He’d practically given up hope of reconciling with the three men, already envisioning his future elsewhere as he slowly convinced himself that he was a poor Musketeer.

 

Now, he was being offered a second chance; it was an opportunity to redeem himself and to remain in the company of his brothers-in-arms. Most importantly, it represented the prospect of being once more accepted by his friends and hearing them call him _brother_. The days he’d spent apart from the men had been agonizing, the guilt itself being difficult enough to bear without the additional burden of doing so completely alone. He’d forgotten how much easier life was when both his sorrows and his joys could be shared with the three men, and their absence had felt as though a piece of his heart had been carved from his chest. It was this relentless, dull ache that seemed to manifest itself almost physically and made each day its own waking nightmare as he forced himself to slog through the motions of living.  

 

He knew that a select few had begun to notice, especially the physician and Serge, the latter coming to him to express his worry over another barely-touched offering being returned to his kitchen by the young Gascon. He knew that the cook had intentionally been making some of his favorite dishes in an effort to tempt his flagging appetite, but each time his thoughts turned to Aramis, the few bites he’d consumed turned to lead in his belly and he’d been forced to push his plate away.

 

“d’Artagnan,” a soft voice interrupted his whirling mind, and he looked up sharply at hearing his name to see Athos watching him intently, obviously waiting for him to speak.

 

“I…” the Gascon stammered, feeling the staccato of his heart beating too quickly in his chest, still uncertain if he could accept his friends’ forgiveness when he hadn’t yet forgiven himself. “I don’t know what to say,” he finally managed.

 

Athos’ expression dropped, but Porthos merely smiled knowingly as he gently pulled the young man forward into a strong embrace, holding him close against his chest as he bent his head down to whisper in the boy’s ear. “Just say you forgive us.”

 

d’Artagnan stiffened momentarily before sagging against the broad shoulders of his friend, a sob momentarily catching in his throat before he managed to swallow it back down and nod. Porthos tightened his hold on the Gascon, moving a hand to the back of the boy’s head as he held him in place, understanding d’Artagnan’s need for physical contact while he pulled himself back together again.

 

Athos watched enviously as the large man provided his protégé the assurance that he’d been unable to extend since Aramis’ health had taken a turn for the worse. A part of him had known the entire time that they were being unfair, and yet, the fear that had gripped him over the marksman’s deteriorating condition had driven him to act selfishly and unjustly. Seeing how d’Artagnan had been affected, not just by their intentional snubbing, but also by their apology, highlighted how deeply their actions had hurt the young man.

 

Porthos was still wrapped around the Gascon, whispering words of comfort in d’Artagnan’s ear, the boy seeming so much younger than normal in the large man’s embrace. Finally, the boy seemed to find his legs again and he straightened, Porthos changing his grip to hold both of the young man’s upper arms for several seconds before seeing whatever he’d been looking for in the Gascon’s face and releasing him. d’Artagnan seemed both lighter and wearier at the same time as he turned to face Athos with a somewhat self-conscious expression.

 

Clearing his throat, the older man asked, “Am I to understand that we’ve been forgiven?” The Gascon ducked his head, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips as he confirmed Athos’ conclusion. “Good,” the older Musketeer continued. “Then you won’t mind joining us in Aramis’ room for lunch. I get the impression that he’s missed your company and would welcome a change from our apparently smothering attentions.” The last words were infused with mock indignation, and drew a proper grin from the young man, Athos’ lips quirking in satisfaction at the boy’s reaction.

 

Porthos grinned widely and threw an arm around the Gascon’s shoulders, drawing him forward with Athos following behind. As the older man watched them walk away, he felt a pang of sadness at the ease with which the large man expressed his affection for the boy, wishing again that he could trade places with his friend.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At their arrival, the older man turned to them and said, “Thank God you’re here.”

Life had nearly returned to normal for the four men in the week since Athos and Porthos had apologized, and d’Artagnan was gently encouraged by Aramis to put all thoughts of culpability for what had happened out of his head. The marksman was back on his feet as well, his friends releasing a collective sigh of relief at not having to use progressively more creative strategies to keep the man in his bed. Aramis’ leg was healing well and the weakness he’d experienced after battling for his life was improving with each passing day, the physician even agreeing, albeit grudgingly, to allow his patient to resume light duties the day prior. What Aramis didn’t know, was that Treville was in cahoots with the man’s friends, all of whom continued to watch the marksman like a hawk so that he didn’t overexert himself.

 

The week’s end also signalled an end to the Captain’s ability to keep the others at the garrison for the majority of their time, and Porthos and Athos received orders a couple days later to deliver a missive to a nearby noble. The journey itself was fairly short and could be accomplished in a day. Normally, a mission of this type would require only one man to complete, but this particular nobleman felt he’d been snubbed by the King so it would not do to have a solitary Musketeer deliver his message. Athos was annoyed by the mission, simply on principle, having held the title of Comte in his previous life, yet unable to recall a single instance when he’d acted so self-importantly. Porthos, for his part, took the assignment in stride, more than used to the often illogical views and actions of the nobility.

 

“Come on, Athos, I want to be back in time for dinner,” Porthos cajoled, one hand already resting on the horn of his saddle as he prepared to mount.

 

“Yes, go on, Athos, you don’t want to upset the Vicomte by being tardy,” Aramis teased, his eyes shining with amusement.

 

d’Artagnan stood a couple feet away, arms comfortably crossed as he watched the banter between the men, the normalcy of it flowing over him and imbuing him with a sense of calm. The first couple days back in his friends’ company had felt somewhat awkward and stilted, with long stretches of silence broken by conversation that at times seemed forced. The Gascon wasn’t sure if the others had felt the same, or if it was just him being overly sensitive, but as he began to relax, the conversations began to flow, and soon it was as if they’d never been away from each other at all. Drawing a breath, d’Artagnan decided to get in on the good-natured ribbing that was being directed at his mentor. “Don’t worry, Athos, title or not, you still have the nobleman’s stare that can make any man quake in his boots.”

 

The comment drew a guffaw from Porthos, and Aramis gave the Gascon a nod of appreciation, while the older man simply shook his head in defeat, privately pleased at how the young man had re-engaged with them. Pulling himself onto his horse, Athos focused his gaze at Aramis and d’Artagnan as he directed, “Stay out of trouble while we’re away.” The marksman offered a small salute while the Gascon merely nodded. “And make sure you save some dinner for Porthos; I don’t want to hear him complaining the entire way back about the prospect of missing a meal.”

 

The grins on the men’s faces widened at Athos’ words, happy that the older man had chosen to participate in their light-hearted joking. Turning serious for a moment, Athos’ gaze turned to d’Artagnan as he said, “Make sure he doesn’t overdo things today.”

 

The Gascon gave a smile as he dipped his head in understanding, ignoring the marksman’s indignant sputtering since they all knew that Aramis was his own worst enemy when it came to matters of his health. With a final wave, the two men watched their friends ride out through the garrison gates, and d’Artagnan turned to the marksman as he asked, “So, what do you want to do today?” At the gleam that sparked in Aramis’ eye, the Gascon groaned to himself and wondered how much trouble they could possibly find in the course of one day. 

* * *

It was still early in the day, and after d’Artagnan and Aramis had spent the morning cleaning some of the armory’s inventory, a task that the marksman could complete while seated, they shared the midday meal at their usual table. When Aramis pushed his half-eaten plate away, the Gascon frowned in displeasure, knowing that his friend’s appetite had not yet fully recovered. Nonchalantly, he asked, “Not hungry?” He took a bite of his own food as he waited for a reply.

 

Aramis knew that his small meals were a source for concern for his friends, and even he understood that his body needed more fuel in order to heal, but since he’d been hurt, eating had become something of a chore. Affixing a smile to his face, he replied, “It’s not like I’ve been doing anything much to work up an appetite.”

 

d’Artagnan wasn’t fooled by the obvious attempt to deflect attention from the real issue, and he countered, “Is the taste still bothering you?’ He kept his eyes on his plate, trying to put Aramis at ease so that he might offer an honest answer.

 

Several seconds passed before the marksman sighed and said, “Ever since the fire…” He trailed off and swallowed, d’Artagnan automatically pushing a cup of water toward him which Aramis took gratefully, draining half of it before replacing it on the table. “No matter what I eat, it all tastes like ash.” His eyes closed for a moment and the Gascon noted the small shudder that passed through the man’s too-slender frame.

 

Taking another bite, d’Artagnan slowly chewed and swallowed before he recalled, “My appetite was always off when I was sick as a child. I remember my mother being quite distraught thinking that I would grow up to be small and weak. It wasn’t until she made me croquettes with the most wonderful béchamel sauce that things changed; her secret ingredient is one that she was only willing to share with me.” Looking at the marksman, he nodded to himself in satisfaction at the expression of interest he saw. “Perhaps I could make it for you tonight?”

 

Aramis seemed to start and appeared unsure of how to respond. “No, d’Artagnan, you shouldn’t go to the trouble.”

 

“It’s no trouble,” the Gascon replied, already planning to approach Serge for the ingredients he’d need. “The Captain hasn’t assigned me any duties for the afternoon and I’ll have time while you rest.”

 

Aramis flinched at the implication that he should spend the afternoon in his room, but the young man was already rising, moving to the other side of the table to grip the marksman by his upper arm and pull him to his feet. Maintaining his hold, he began to move them toward the stairs and Aramis’ room, determined that he would not allow his friend to overtax himself. With a small grin, the marksman looked at his friend as he realized, “You’re not going to take no for an answer are you?” The Gascon’s return smile was answer enough and Aramis resigned himself to his fate, consoling himself that he’d at least enjoy the benefit of a home-cooked meal afterwards. Suddenly, the thought of spending a few hours in his room didn’t seem so awful.

* * *

A short conversation with Serge had the man opening his kitchen and its stocks to d’Artagnan who took full advantage, preparing a number of croquettes and a pot of sauce to accompany them. When he’d finished, Serge came around and asked for a taste, the Gascon proudly inviting him to help himself.

 

Smacking his lips appreciatively, Serge nodded in approval, “That’s quite tasty; you’ve done a good job.” d’Artagnan’s expression seemed unsure, surprising the old cook. “You disagree?”

 

“No,” the Gascon began, “it’s just that I wanted to make my mother’s special recipe, but I couldn’t find one of the ingredients.”

 

Scratching his head, Serge asked, “What ingredient?”

 

d’Artagnan hesitated, certain that the garrison kitchen would not have what he needed, before he replied, “Nutmeg.”

 

Serge’s face split into a wide grin as he clapped the young man on the back and ordered, “Wait here; I’ll be right back.” The cook disappeared for several minutes and when he returned, he was holding a small pouch in one hand which he tossed at the boy.

 

d’Artagnan moved hastily to catch it, looking questioningly at Serge who said, “Have a look.” Releasing the drawstring of the pouch, the Gascon tipped it over top of his hand, surprised to find the spice he’d been searching for sitting in the centre of his palm.

 

Looking at the cook in disbelief, he questioned, “But, how?”

 

“It was given to the King as a gift by a travelling merchant, but it turns out he don’t like the flavour. Since the palace cook can’t use it, he sent it over to us. Damn shame given how pricey it is,” Serge explained, his grin never dimming. “Go ahead and use what you need. I’ve got no other use for it.”

 

“Thank you,” d’Artagnan breathed out, already imagining the enjoyment on Aramis’ face when he tasted his creation.

 

Serge gave a nod in reply and turned to walk away, pausing a moment later to face the young man once more. “You know how to use it?” The Gascon nodded yes and the cook smiled again. “Then I’ll leave you to it.”

 

d’Artagnan took great care as he grated the nutmeg into the sauce, tasting it a couple of times as he did his best to gauge how much of the spice to add. Looking at the significant amount of nutmeg that remained, he hummed to himself as he decided to add the rest of the seasoning to his dish. After all, if a little enhanced the flavour, then more could only make it taste that much better. Once he was satisfied, he plated a serving for Aramis and another for himself, before letting Serge know that he had a several servings of the sauce remaining and to feel free to serve it to the rest of the garrison with dinner. It was with a great deal of satisfaction that he left the kitchen and made his way to Aramis’ room, pleased with the results of his efforts.

 

When he arrived at the marksman’s room, he banged on it with his foot, both hands full with food, and Aramis opened the door to him moments later. Sniffing appreciatively, the marksman moved out of the way, allowing the young man to enter and place the dishes on the small table. “Sit,” d’Artagnan motioned when his friend joined him, admiring the food that had been prepared specially for him.

 

Sitting, Aramis commented, “Croquettes with béchamel sauce?”

 

“With my mother’s special ingredient,” d’Artagnan added, waiting expectantly for his friend to take a bite.

 

The marksman obliged, chewing slowly before letting out a moan of pleasure as the rich flavours exploded on his tongue. When he’d swallowed, he looked at his young friend with admiration. “d’Artagnan, this is wonderful; truly.” The Gascon grinned in pleasure as the marksman attacked his food, eating every last bite before pushing his plate away and sitting back contentedly. “That was excellent, d’Artagnan. Thank you.”

 

The young man nodded in reply, thrilled that he’d succeeded in getting a full meal into his friend. “You know,” Aramis began, “Porthos will be upset that he missed this.”

 

Fleetingly, d’Artagnan remembered his promise to the two absent men to save them some dinner, and he gave an easy smile as he said, “Don’t worry, they can share this plate.”

 

Aramis’ eyebrow lifted as he asked, “What about you?”

 

Dismissing the comment with a shake of his head. “I’ll go get something more from the kitchen. Wait here?” Aramis dipped his head in agreement as he watched the young man depart and happily recalled the intense flavours of the meal he’d just enjoyed.

 

In the kitchen, Serge was busy serving the remaining men at the garrison, dishing out slices of ham and freshly baked bread. Catching the cook’s eye, the young man asked, “Is there any of my sauce left?”

 

“No, the men gobbled it up in the first few minutes. Used the bread to sop up every last bit,” Serge replied, noting the look of pride on the Gascon’s face.

 

d’Artagnan gave a nod and said, “I promised I’d get Porthos and Athos some dinner; they should be returning soon.” Serge helped him dish up portions for each of the men, taking the plates back to Aramis’ room as he fully expected the two would head directly there to check on their friend upon arriving back.

 

The Gascon’s conclusion proved correct, and the two men were already there by the time he returned, Porthos sitting at the table and finishing up the remains of the dish he’d left behind. Looking up at the young man’s arrival, the large man grinned admiringly. “This was really good, d’Artagnan, and I hear that Aramis finished an entire plate.”

 

The Gascon ducked his head momentarily at the implied praise, all of them having worried and fussed over the marksman’s diminished appetite. Lifting the two plates he held, d’Artagnan said, “I brought something for Athos and I,” he paused for a moment as he looked to the former, “unless you’ve already had something?”

 

Athos’ lips quirked as he replied, “Have you ever known Porthos to share his food?”

 

The large man shrugged and grinned easily, happy to allow the teasing at his expense now that he knew how well the marksman had been cared for in their absence. “Sorry I don’t have any more of what I cooked for Aramis,” d’Artagnan said as he set the two full plates down on the table.

 

“It matters little,” Athos replied, taking the seat that Porthos had vacated so he could eat. “Knowing that Aramis and Porthos enjoyed it is enough.” In that moment, d’Artagnan was reminded again of Athos’ statement that the two of them were more alike than he realized, and the young man had to admit that he shared his mentor’s sentiment and was simply happy that his two friends had enjoyed the meal he’d carefully prepared. It would have been better if he’d had the foresight to keep enough back for Athos as well, but the older man seemed content enough with the ham he’d brought in its place so the Gascon settled in the chair across from his friend and began to eat.

 

When they’d finished, Aramis managed to convince them that he was well enough to leave the boredom of his room for a while, although the others were not comfortable with the idea of walking into the city to a tavern in deference to his still healing leg, which caused him some pain when he was tired. Their compromise was to send Porthos and d’Artagnan out to buy several bottles of wine, while Athos and Aramis made the shorter journey to the older man’s rooms where they could enjoy themselves in comfort.

 

As the two men walked, Aramis glanced at his friend and asked, “How are things between you and d’Artagnan?”

 

If Athos was surprised by the query, he gave little indication, his stride remaining even and relaxed as he considered his friend’s question. The truth was that he’d found the first days after their apology difficult, the Gascon still feeling awkward in their presence and the older man struggling to put aside the memories of how badly they’d treated him. If asked, he guessed that both Porthos and d’Artagnan would now describe things as having returned to normal, the four having fallen back into the companionable interactions that marked their brotherhood. The unease that had been present in the young man’s behaviour had waned and eventually disappeared altogether, and the Gascon had fully engaged in Aramis’ care once again, to whatever degree was allowed by his other duties.

 

Beside him, the marksman stumbled, Athos automatically reaching out a hand to steady the man as he frowned in worry. Catching the look, Aramis hurried to reassure him, “I’m fine. Just an uneven cobblestone or something.” At the look of doubt on Athos’ face, the marksman continued on in an effort to distract him. “So, you and d’Artagnan?”

 

The frown smoothed away and the older man gave a small shrug as he replied, “Things seem to have returned to normal.”

 

Aramis offered a cheeky grin as he countered, “Ah, but sometimes things are not as they seem.”

 

Athos was about to respond when the marksman tripped again, and the older man caught him once more, this time sparring a glance at the ground to identify the cause, but seeing nothing. His brow furrowed once more and Aramis was just as quick as before to assure him, “It’s nothing, Athos, just wasn’t paying attention to where I was stepping.”

 

He knew that the older man remained unconvinced, but he remained blessedly silent, a fact for which Aramis was incredibly grateful. Truthfully, he had no idea why he continued to stumble, or why he was feeling somewhat lightheaded and strange, a fact that he did not want to share with his friend. His injury and subsequent fever had meant far too many days cooped up in his room, and he was unwilling to do or say anything that might make the others doubt his fitness to be out and about.

 

Forcing himself to focus, Aramis managed the rest of the journey without further mishap, huffing slightly to himself when Athos had him lead the way up the stairs in case he faltered. Again, the marksman knew that it was a distinct possibility, the feeling of strangeness persisting and making the world around him seem hazy and distant, but he determinedly planted his feet on one stair after the other, keeping a hand on the banister to steady himself as he ascended. By the time they’d entered Athos’ rooms, Aramis had no thoughts beyond sitting down and blinking away the odd flashes of light that seemed to now hover at the edges of his vision.

 

Several streets way, d’Artagnan and Porthos had made their purchase and were making their way back through the thinning crowds. It was the first real opportunity that the Gascon had had to be alone with the larger man and he’d been enjoying the time with his friend. That was up until Porthos began acting oddly. d’Artagnan turned his head to follow the larger man’s gaze as he once more shifted to search the area behind them. The strange behaviour had started several minutes earlier, and the young man was now beginning to wonder if there was cause for concern. Seeing nothing obvious behind them, he leaned in closer to Porthos and asked, “Is there something wrong?”

 

The question seemed to startle the large man and he jumped slightly before offering a sheepish grin. “Nah, I’m sure it’s fine.” The comment was followed by another furtive look around and the Gascon’s confused expression deepened.

 

“Then why do you keep looking around?” d’Artagnan pressed, doggedly trying to figure out what had his friend so anxious.

 

Porthos worried his bottom lip for a moment in a fashion so unlike him that d’Artagnan noticed it immediately, his puzzlement slowly morphing to concern. With another glance at their surroundings, the large man queried, “Did you see anyone followin’ us?”

 

Without conscious thought, the Gascon surveyed the area around them quickly, not noticing anything of interest, and certainly not seeing anyone who was paying them any undue attention. Trusting Porthos’ instincts and unwilling to dismiss his concerns he replied, “Not that I see. What makes you think so?”

 

Porthos gave an uncomfortable shrug and a shake of his head, either unable or unwilling to explain what was troubling him. “Do you think we should be worried?” d’Artagnan pressed, trying hard to understand what was happening so he could do his part to keep them both safe. Another silent shrug was his only reply and the young man frowned at his friend’s uncharacteristic behaviour.

 

The rest of their trip to Athos’ apartments was completed in silence, Porthos continuing to intermittently scan for any signs of danger while d’Artagnan kept an eye on his friend. He breathed a sigh of relief when they reached their destination unmolested, the Gascon gratefully following his friend up the stairs. The sight that greeted them made d’Artagnan’s relief fleeting. Athos was pleading with a distraught Aramis who stood on the older man’s bed, his eyes wide with fear. The young man’s eyes darted between Athos’ hands raised in supplication to the marksman’s tense shoulders, a steady stream of nonsensical words streaming from his mouth as he babbled something about birds. At their arrival, the older man turned to them and said, “Thank God you’re here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple tidbits from various online sources regarding d'Artagnan's special dish:
> 
> 1\. Croquettes: originally regarded as a French cuisine delicacy, and first described in a recipe from 1691 by the chef of the French king Louis XIV and using ingredients such as truffles, sweetbreads, and cream cheese.
> 
> 2\. Bechamel sauce: also known as white sauce, is made from a white roux (butter and flour) and milk, and often made with a pinch of nutmeg.
> 
> Continued thanks to AZGirl for her help with this story. Also, just a reminder that I won't be posting tomorrow and the next chapter will be up on Sunday. Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wearing a stricken expression as he met the young man’s gaze, he said, “d’Artagnan, what did you do?”

The marksman was clearly agitated, although the source of his stress was anyone’s guess. It was also obvious that Athos had been having little luck calming the man and was grateful for the arrival of reinforcements.

 

“What ‘appened?” Porthos asked, his shock at seeing his friend in such a state evident in his tone.

 

Athos spared a moment to throw him an exasperated look, indicating his own confusion with Aramis’ behaviour as well as his frustration at having been unable to soothe the man. Porthos seemed to understand what the older man hadn’t verbalized and muttered a soft “sorry” before carefully putting down the bottles he held and moving closer to the bed, his eyes now firmly fixed on his anxious friend’s. “Aramis,” the tone was one that might be used with a young, frightened child. “What’s the matter?”

 

Aramis’ eyes were wide and his pupils were blown, making his dark eyes seem almost black, and causing them stand out in sharp contrast to his overly pale face which was shiny with sweat. Porthos’ voice seemed to draw his attention, and his gaze momentarily connected with his friend’s before skittering away again as he shuddered. The larger man listened intently to the marksman’s low mumbling, and watched the way his eyes danced across the floor that separated them before trying again. “What do you see, ‘Mis?”

 

Again he was rewarded when the marksman’s eyes moved in his direction, pausing in his unending stream of babble to say one word. “Ravens.”

 

“What?” the question was blurted out and both Porthos and Athos sharply turned their heads in d’Artagnan’s direction, the young man looking apologetic for interrupting their attempts to help their injured friend.

 

Despite the Gascon’s unintentional outburst, Aramis turned his attention to the young man as his breathing quickened, softly saying, “They’ve finally come for me.” He was quickly moving from fear to panic as he managed a few more words. “They like the eyes best.” Aramis’ hands came up to his head, fingers twining into the curls there as he collapsed to his knees atop Athos’ bed, his eyes tightly closed as a low keening wail erupted from his chest.

 

Porthos wasted no time in covering the remaining space between them, seating himself on the mattress next to the distraught man and pulling Aramis close to his chest. As he held the marksman’s gently swaying form, he looked up at Athos and mouthed “Savoy.”

 

The older man scrubbed a hand across his face, momentarily relieved that they’d made some minor progress in calming their friend, but completely at a loss about what had prompted such an episode to begin with. “Savoy?” d’Artagnan repeated softly behind him, and he turned to face the Gascon, giving a quick shake of his head, fearful that repeating the name would trigger another extreme reaction.

 

Focusing once more on Porthos, Athos asked, “How is he?”

 

The large man seemed uncertain and unwilling to release his friend and disturb the fragile peace they’d achieved. Seeing Porthos’ hesitation, Athos motioned with his head towards Aramis and communicated his intention to come closer, the larger man offering a small dip of his head in return. Taking a seat on Aramis’ other side, the older man assured their friend. “It’s just me, Aramis. You’re fine.”

 

When the marksman stayed calm, remaining pressed against Porthos’ chest, Athos continued. “I’m just going to take a look at you, alright?” When Aramis didn’t voice any protest, Athos moved a hand slowly to his friend’s forehead, surprised at the cool, clammy skin he found there. Continuing his careful movements to avoid startling the man, he took Aramis’ hand in his, pressing fingers to the marksman’s wrist and frowning at the hammering beat he felt there.

 

At Porthos’ questioning look, he murmured, “His heart is racing.” Turning his attention back to Aramis, Athos noted the furrowed brow and he leaned closer and whispered, “Does your head hurt?” The marksman began to nod, halting the motion abruptly as his headache spiked and he whimpered with pain. Although the sound was quiet, the admission it represented sent a new jolt of worry through the men, the images of Aramis’ most recent battle will illness still freshly etched in their minds.

 

d’Artagnan looked on helplessly as Athos tried to figure out what was wrong with their friend, and he watched as the two older men communicated silently and then worked together to remove Aramis’ doublet and boots before gently laying him down on the bed. Porthos stayed seated on the edge of the mattress, a hand carding through the marksman’s tangled curls, while Athos rose and moved to speak with the Gascon. “What happened?” the words escaped before the young man could stop them, his concern over the man’s condition just as great as the others.

 

Athos gave a small shake of his head. “I’ve no idea. Did something happen today?”

 

“What?” d’Artagnan blurted in surprise before thinking back on their quiet day and replying. “No, nothing at all. We cleaned weapons, and then he rested in his room all afternoon while I was in the kitchen. He’d literally just finished eating when you arrived.” Athos was listening intently to his words, but had still avoided answering his earlier question and d’Artagnan needed to know what had led up to the scene that they’d walked into earlier. “Athos, what about when we left to get the wine?”

 

Athos’ mind retraced their steps, recalling the conversation they’d had and the times the marksman had stumbled. He’d sensed that Aramis was struggling as they’d ascended the stairs but had dismissed it as ongoing weakness from the man’s most recent wound. They hadn’t been in the room long before Aramis’ eyes had begun to dart around the space and he’d dragged himself back to his feet, despite the fact that Athos was certain his friend didn’t feel up to standing.

 

The older man had been able to ignore the strange behaviour for a few minutes until Aramis had begun to pace, his distressed state seeming to appear before his eyes. It was shortly afterwards that the mumbling began, which culminated in the marksman’s uncoordinated leap onto Athos’ bed. Porthos and d’Artagnan had arrived shortly afterwards to see the older man’s unsuccessful attempts at reasoning with their friend.

 

Realizing d’Artagnan was still expectantly waiting, he gave a small shrug and said, “The further we walked, the more unsteady he seemed, and he became agitated soon after we arrived. He sat briefly and then began to pace before his ramblings began and he ended on top of my bed.” Stroking his beard for a moment in contemplation he admitted, “I’m at a loss to explain his odd behaviour or what reminded him of Savoy.”

 

Further conversation was cut short as Porthos joined them, his bloodshot eyes pinning them both with a hard look as he declared, “We can’t leave him alone.” d’Artagnan was already nodding in agreement that they would stay with Aramis before the larger man went on. “He needs to be kept safe.”

 

Athos raised an eyebrow at the unusual comment and he questioned, “Safe from what?”

 

Porthos looked at him incredulously for a moment before he replied, “From those that mean him harm, of course.” He began to pace slowly across the room while Athos and d’Artagnan exchanged puzzled looks, wondering if their friend was aware of some threat to the marksman’s life.

 

“What do you mean, Porthos?” the Gascon asked. “Who wants to hurt him?”

 

The large man’s pacing paused long enough for him to answer, “The ones that were followin’ us, of course.”

 

Athos looked to d’Artagnan for an explanation, but the young man had little to offer. “Porthos kept looking around when we were on our way here. I didn’t see anything, but he seemed certain we were being followed.”

 

The information only deepened Athos’ frown as he tried to decide whether or not a real threat existed against them. Porthos was at the far end of the room now and he stopped abruptly, pulling the pistol from his belt as he pointed it at the door. “They found us!” he shouted, his cry followed moments later by the sound of a shot. Athos gasped and Porthos swayed, his spent pistol hanging loosely in his grip. Seconds passed in silence and then the large man crumpled, his body falling against the wall at his back as he slid bonelessly to the floor.

 

d’Artagnan was stunned and his head snapped to the still closed door before turning back in time to see Porthos collapse, but he still had no idea why the large man had fired. A low groan caught his attention and his head swivelled toward the sound, his eyes drawn to the stain of red that was spreading from underneath Athos’ fingers where they were clasped around his upper arm. “Athos,” he moved quickly to his mentor’s side, the man’s face already pale and pinched with pain.

 

“No,” the older man tugged himself free from d’Artagnan’s grip. “Check on Porthos.” The Gascon was torn but the look on Athos’ face brooked no argument, and he grudgingly moved to do as he’d been asked. Sinking down beside the large man, d’Artagnan plucked the pistol from his loose fingers where they wrapped around the stock. Placing it to one side, he noted the sheen of sweat covering their friend’s face. “Is he alive?” Athos asked, the strain in his voice clearly telegraphing his discomfort.

 

Reaching a hand forward, d’Artagnan found the reassuring heartbeat at Porthos’ neck, somewhat surprised at the speed at which the thrum underneath his fingers repeated. “It’s really fast,” he replied. Athos’ head dropped to his chest in relief, another part of his brain already cataloging the fact that the two men’s symptoms were eerily similar. The young man moved his hand to Porthos’ head next, repeating his mentor’s earlier actions with Aramis and discovering the same results. “Cool and clammy,” he said, removing his hand. Porthos’ eyes fluttered and d’Artagnan placed a hand on his friend’s chest, hoping to both comfort him and keep him from turning violent again.

 

“Porthos, how are you feeling?” the Gascon asked worriedly.

 

The large man groaned, his lids rising only partway before he squinted in pain. “Head hurts,” he managed before taking a steadying breath, “a lot.”

 

“Can you stand?” d’Artagnan asked, hoping to get the man up off the floor and into a chair. Porthos merely moaned and let his eyes close in reply.

 

The Gascon turned to face Athos, looking to the older man for direction. “Get him a blanket and let him stretch out on the floor.” The young man gave a quick nod of acknowledgement, pulling a blanket and pillow from the chest and making the large man as comfortable as possible.

 

“Now what?” he queried as he stood, eyeing the still-growing stain on Athos’ arm.

 

The older man seemed distracted though, and not at all worried that he’d been shot. His gaze moved between the two sleeping men as he said to himself, “This is no coincidence.”

 

With a huff of annoyance, d’Artagnan crossed the space between them and guided Athos to a chair, matching the older man’s expression with a determined one of his own. “I need to check your arm,” he said, waiting as Athos pulled his hand away and then allowed the Gascon to widen the hole in his sleeve. The ball had passed through the fleshy part on the inside of the man’s upper arm and he silently said a prayer of thanks that he wouldn’t have to dig around to retrieve it. “Needle and thread, and clean bandages?” d’Artagnan questioned, needing the supplies to properly care for the wound.

 

“Top drawer,” Athos replied distractedly, still studying their two friends’ sleeping forms.

 

While Athos removed his shirt, the Gascon retrieved the supplies and then used one of the newly purchased bottles of wine to thoroughly clean the entry and exit wounds, the older man grunting in discomfort but otherwise staying silent. Before the young man could pierce his mentor’s skin to place the first stitch, Athos took the half-empty bottle from him and gulped down a large portion of it as he steeled himself for the unpleasant experience of having his wounds sewn closed. d’Artagnan absently took note of the older man’s action before grabbing a hold of his arm and positioning it so he could begin. As he carefully pushed the needle into Athos’ flesh, he asked, “What do you mean about this not being a coincidence?”

 

The older man bit down on a gasp of pain, letting out a slow, controlled breath as he kept his gaze fixed on a point beyond d’Artagnan’s shoulder. “Don’t you think it odd,” he paused as the Gascon placed another stitch, “that both Porthos and Aramis are acting so strangely? Both of them seem to be seeing things that aren’t there, they’re unsteady, and both complained of headaches.”

 

d’Artagnan frowned as he pulled the thread through Athos’ skin, considering the logic of his friend’s words. “So if not coincidence, then what?”

 

Athos gave a low grunt as another stitch was placed. “When you’re done, I want you to go back to the garrison.” He paused and bit his lip at the sharp pain of the needle’s entry. “Update the Captain and find out if he’s received any word of planned aggression against the regiment.” Athos let out a long sigh as d’Artagnan tied off the last knot and cut the thread free, efficiently wiping the stitches with wine before covering them with clean linen.

 

As the Gascon cleaned up the supplies, he appraised his friend and asked, “And you?”

 

Athos gave him a tolerant look as he pointed out, “Clearly they’re not in their right minds, and it would be remiss of us to leave them unattended.”

 

d’Artagnan bit his lip as he observed the two men, both seemingly asleep, but already having proven they could be a danger to others as well as themselves. “Maybe I should stay,” he began, unhappy at the prospect of leaving the older man alone with the two apparently ill Musketeers.

 

Before Athos could reply, Aramis began to moan and toss weakly on the bed, his head rolling from one side to the other as his breaths rapidly increased. As one, they moved toward the man, both wearing identical looks of worry and confusion. Moments later the marksman had managed to fling his face over the side of the bed, his upper body barely raised off the mattress as he began to vomit. Athos cursed softly under his breath as he sat down next to the ailing man, steadying him so that he didn’t collapse onto the floor. “d’Artagnan,” the older man barked, his attention focused solely on Aramis’ weak heaving as his stomach continued to clench painfully.

 

The Gascon didn’t need any further direction and he moved at once to bring over the chamber pot, positioning it underneath Aramis’ mouth to catch the last remnants of his earlier meal. When it was clear that the marksman was finished, d’Artagnan deposited the soiled vessel outside, shaking his head sadly at the fact that his friend had been unable to keep down the first proper meal he’d eaten in weeks. Meanwhile, Athos had wet a cloth and was wiping Aramis’ face, removing the sweat that had accumulated from the man’s exertion.

 

The marksman looked terrible, his face even paler than before and his eyes closed tightly against the lingering pain of his illness, harsh breaths sawing loudly as he panted through his distress. d’Artagnan scrubbed a hand across his face as he was reminded of Athos’ earlier words, wondering if there was a significant threat of which they were unaware, but that had targeted their two brothers. A look at the older man’s face confirmed the fact that his thoughts were of a similar vein, and the young man sighed quietly as he resigned himself to the need to return to the garrison.

 

As he took a step toward the door, his movement was halted by a low groan from Porthos who was becoming restless. Exchanging a quick look of horror with Athos, d’Artagnan strode toward the larger man, seeing the signs in the nick of time and turning him so that he could be sick. With Athos at Aramis’ side and the Gascon at Porthos’, there was no one to get the chamber pot and d’Artagnan accepted the fact that they would have two pools of sickness to clean up. The large man’s vomiting was just as intense and painful as the marksman’s if the look of pain on his face was any indication.

 

Looking over at his mentor as he helped Porthos settle onto his back, d’Artagnan queried, “Now what?”

 

Athos’ reply was interrupted by a knock on the door and he couldn’t help but roll his eyes, wondering what more could possibly befall them. With a quick check of Aramis’ condition, the older man stood up and answered the door, surprised to find Serge standing there, twisting his hat in his hands. At Athos’ questioning eyebrow, the cook gave the Musketeer a short nod in greeting, scanning the rest of the room until his eyes landed on the Gascon.

 

Sensing Serge’s intent, Athos stepped back and allowed the man to come in. His gaze fixed on the young man, the cook asked, “Aramis and Porthos, they been sick?”

 

“Yes,” the older Musketeer replied, “and before that they seemed agitated, saw things that weren’t there and complained of headaches.”

 

Serge’s face fell as he nodded, clearly having expected Athos’ reply. “At the garrison too.”

 

Still standing at the cook’s side, Athos pressed, “Has the Captain sent orders?”

 

Serge shook his head slowly, “d’Artagnan, did you have any of the sauce you cooked tonight?”

 

The Gascon answered without thought, startled by the odd question, “No more than a couple tastes. Why do you ask?”

 

The cook didn’t reply but turned his attention to Athos instead. “It was the nutmeg the boy used in the sauce. Too much can cause all of the symptoms you’ve described and sometimes even death.”

 

Silence descended on the room like a thick cloak and several long seconds passed before Athos could drag his eyes away from Serge to focus on the Gascon. Wearing a stricken expression as he met the young man’s gaze, he said, “d’Artagnan, what did you do?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the great comments on the last chapter. Many of you guessed correctly that d'Artagnan made a mistake with his secret ingredient. Although Bechamel sauce may contain nutmeg, the amount would obviously not be enough to produce the symptoms described here. I hope you'll forgive me for taking liberties with the recipe and twisting facts to suit my purposes.
> 
> Continued thanks to AZGirl for her beta skills. Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> d’Artagnan recognized that perhaps the decision between the two paths ahead of him was not the only one he now faced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's continuing to read, comment, and leave kudos. Also, my thanks to AZGirl for her help in smoothing out all the rough edges.

d’Artagnan felt as though all the air had vanished from the room in one, swift rush, leaving his chest heavy and tight as he struggled to breathe past the weight of the news that Serge had just shared. Athos’ reaction had been a mix of shock and revulsion and the Gascon cringed at the expression of horror on his mentor’s face.

 

“I…I…” the young man stammered, searching for some explanation to offer that would make things right, but there was nothing he could say that would excuse his mistake. Fear clenched around his heart and he wished he could ignore its painful hammering, certain that the others in the room could hear its too-fast beat. Seeing Athos’ accusatory stare and Serge’s more sympathetic one, he swallowed thickly and tried again, opening his mouth only to close it when no words would come. d’Artagnan looked away, unable to handle the intensity of his mentor’s gaze, the man’s disappointment almost palpable. His eyes fell on Aramis momentarily before turning his face downwards, the marksman’s pale countenance a cruel reminder of Serge’s announcement.

 

The cook broke the awkward silence as he said, “Captain Treville wants to see you, d’Artagnan.” The Gascon nodded numbly in acknowledgement, too ashamed to meet either man’s gaze. Serge turned his attention to the older Musketeer next, but before he could continue Aramis moaned and began to grow restless. Athos moved to his friend’s side and sat down on the edge of the bed before catching Serge’s eye again. “I’ll send someone from the garrison to help,” the cook stated as he prepared to leave, waiting for the young man to follow.

 

As the marksman began to heave once more, the Gascon threw Athos a pleading look, recognizing that Porthos would likely be next, and he was unwilling to leave his mentor alone to deal with their two ill friends. The older man read the underlying expression and gave a short tilt of his head before turning his focus back to the sick man at his side. “I’ll follow once you can send someone to help Athos,” d’Artagnan said, causing Serge to hesitate for a moment before giving a nod of assent and departing.

 

The young man’s prediction was unfortunately accurate and he was soon supporting Porthos through another episode of sickness. The night continued on in the same fashion, with the larger man finally beginning to settle and resting more comfortably. Aramis, on the other hand, worsened as the hours passed, and d’Artagnan could see the desperation and fear shining in Athos’ eyes the few times that he was willing to meet the young man’s gaze. Contrary to Serge’s statement that he would send help, no one came and the Gascon steadfastly remained, cleaning out the chamber pot in between bouts of sickness, pouring water in Porthos’ mouth when he was coherent enough to drink, and just generally doing his best to fade into the background in between as he tried to shrink away from the anger that now rolled off his mentor in waves.

 

As he observed Aramis from the corner of the room where he’d ensconced himself, d’Artagnan’s growing concern gave him the courage to remark, “He seems to be getting worse.” Athos seemed momentarily surprised that the young man had dared to speak, and it took him a few seconds before he gave a grunt in reply. Licking dry lips, the Gascon tried again, “Has he managed any water?” He already knew the answer, but wanted desperately for his mentor to allow him to re-engage with the marksman’s care. Again, it took several moments before Athos answered and, when he did, it was merely a quick shake of his head. “Porthos seems to be improving,” d’Artagnan offered, thinking that Athos would at least be relieved to know that one of their friends was doing better, but the proclamation only seemed to make the older man withdraw further into himself.

 

Quiet reigned once more as d’Artagnan fell silent, berating himself again for his part in their friends’ conditions. He was surprised when Athos chose to speak, his voice low but dangerous, obviously keeping a tight rein on his emotions, “You should return to the garrison.”

 

The statement was not what the Gascon had expected, and he inhaled as he prepared to argue but was prevented from doing so as the older man went on, “Porthos is resting comfortably and I can manage one man on my own.” He looked up then, and the haunted expression on his face nearly took d’Artagnan’s breath away. Gone was the fondness that often lurked underneath the serious mask that Athos typically wore. In its place was a hardness that d’Artagnan had never seen directed at himself or the others; it was a look the man saved for their adversaries and it was now firmly directed at him.

 

Taking a steadying breath, the Gascon found that he had nothing to say that would sway the older man and, with Porthos’ stable condition, there was no longer any excuse he could use to delay the inevitable. Swallowing with difficultly and blinking hard to prevent the moisture in his eyes from falling, he gave a short nod before gathering his things and exiting the room, not daring to look back for fear that the older man would not even care enough to watch him go.

 

As he closed the door behind him, his breath left him with a whoosh and he leaned against the wall at his back, suddenly unable to continue on. His knees felt weak and he was lightheaded, the events of the last several hours catching up to him even as he sought the strength to face Treville’s censure. No matter what happened with the Captain, d’Artagnan knew it could not be any worse than the disappointment he’d already faced with Athos and, once Aramis and Porthos awoke, he was confident that disappointment would be multiplied by three.

 

Inhaling raggedly, he swiped a hand at his cheek where an errant tear had managed to fall, and he sniffed angrily at how badly he was behaving. Inside, Aramis and Porthos were suffering as a result of his carelessness and he was wallowing in self-pity. Certain that he was getting no less than he deserved, he straightened his back and locked his knees, forcing himself to move away and follow the well-known route back to the garrison. 

* * *

The evening hours had brought forth a nightmare of epic proportion, with almost half of their numbers falling to an unknown illness, leaving the regiment weak and prime for attack. In addition to caring for those affected, Treville was left scrambling to maintain the barest level of security around their perimeter as they also battled to restrain those inside, keeping them from hurting themselves or their brothers-in-arms.

 

At first, it had been the occasional odd behaviour that had others’ eyebrows raising in consternation, but the situation had escalated quickly, with one man after another turning suspicious and even violent, and shortly the Musketeers were having to turn their skills against their own in order to prevent bloodshed. Before men had begun to drop from blinding headaches and nausea, four men had been wounded by pistol shots and sword swipes, adding to the number of men needing to be cared for by those still healthy enough to do so.

 

Now, as the first pink streaks of dawn crawled across the still dark sky, Treville scrubbed a hand tiredly across his face. The infirmary was full and every able-bodied man had gone without sleep as they’d tended to their sick brothers; he was now facing a day filled with too many assignments that needed to be doled out, with too few men to complete them. He knew, without a doubt, that those who were capable would continue on, placing duty above their bodies’ needs, but would it be enough? Exhaling deeply he moved the pieces of parchment around on his desk, his eyes resting on each momentarily as he mentally prioritized what needed to be done against the manpower available to him.

 

Leaning back unhappily, his posture was defeated as his earlier conclusions were confirmed – they did not have enough fit men to deploy. The answer was clear, but it rankled him, and he steeled himself for the coming conversation he’d need to have with the Cardinal as he requested additional resources from the ranks of the Red Guard in order to ensure the safety of the nation and their monarchs. He would, of course, assign them those duties with the least responsibility, but it would still be something the Cardinal would hold over his head, gloating happily at how he’d had to support the ailing Musketeer regiment.

 

Shoving the unpleasant task to the back of his mind, his thoughts turned next to the cause of all their troubles, recognizing that the Gascon would be arriving soon and would have to be dealt with. He’d asked Serge to keep their findings to themselves, concerned that some among their ranks might take it upon themselves to mete out some form of justice against the young man, but despite their best efforts, he knew that word would eventually leak out. While he normally had little difficultly controlling the actions of his men, a situation like this was delicate, and he was far from certain that he could guarantee d’Artagnan’s safety. As his eyes skittered back to the abandoned paperwork on his desk, the name Châteaudun stood out clearly as though beckoning him, and he picked up the parchment that had captured his attention.

 

The mission was a simple retrieval, and though he would normally send two men to complete it, he was now forced to pare down his forces considerably in deference to his ailing men. The journey would take roughly two weeks – enough time for the affected men to recover and for tempers to cool. He stroked his chin in contemplation, hesitant to send the young man out alone, but wondering if the benefits didn’t outweigh the risks. A few more seconds’ thought and he’d made his decision, determined to set the boy on his way as soon as they’d discussed his role in the sauce debacle.

 

He was pulled from his thoughts by a hesitant knock on his door, and he knew without a doubt that the Gascon had arrived. Drawing a deep breath, he tugged at the bottom of his doublet as he straightened in his chair. Affixing a neutral expression on his face, he invited the boy in. “Come,” he called out, pleased that his voice remained steady, despite the strong emotions that he felt swirling beneath the surface. Although d’Artagnan had made a significant mistake, Treville also empathized with the young man, understanding that his error was completely without malice and had been borne solely out of inexperience. Unfortunately, it did not change his responsibility toward the other men of the garrison, and he steeled himself for the uncomfortable conversation to come.

 

When d’Artagnan entered, Treville had to stop himself from reacting, his first instinct to comfort rather than berate the boy. Gone was the air of confidence that the Gascon normally projected, his shoulders slumped and his face gray from hours of worry and lack of sleep. Heavy black rings painted both eyes and his lank hair fell limply to his shoulders. The man who entered bore no resemblance to the skilled soldier who’d managed to defeat Labarge; in his place stood a man defeated by the world, who’d lost everything of importance, something, Treville reflected, that might actually be true.

 

“d’Artagnan,” the Captain said in greeting, giving a short nod as the young man stood at attention in front of his desk.

 

“Captain,” the Gascon replied, his gaze firmly fixed on a point behind Treville as he did his best to hold himself together, determined that he would not embarrass his friends further by wilting under the fury of their commander’s stare. The Captain was silent for several long seconds as he examined the man before him, and d’Artagnan exerted all of his considerable willpower in an effort to appear both unaffected and contrite, locking his knees despite their desire to fold beneath him as his heart raced wildly in his chest.

 

Deciding that compassion would be the best approach, Treville began. “You are aware of what has transpired.” It was more a statement than a question, but the Gascon felt compelled to acknowledge it regardless, dipping his chin slightly to indicate his agreement. “Nearly half the garrison is incapacitated, and those who are not are either caring for their sick brothers-in-arms or will be assigned duties at the palace.” Another almost imperceptible tilt of the head was d’Artagnan’s only reaction. Suppressing a sigh, the Captain continued, “I understand that this was a mistake, but there may be those who are less willing to forgive and forget.”

 

“I accept full responsibility for my actions, and am ready to accept any punishment you decide upon,” the Gascon interjected, his words strong and clipped, but spoken with an undertone of regret.

 

Treville narrowed his eyes at the interruption as he cleared his throat and said, “I cannot spare an able-bodied man to be punished while our numbers are so effected.” He caught the momentary look of relief that flashed on d’Artagnan’s face and hurried to finish. “We will discuss how you will make retribution for your actions when you return.” The Gascon’s expression shifted to wariness, and a part of the Captain was pleased that the young man was still somewhat off balance. “I need you to travel to Châteaudun”. The Comte has an item that you’re to collect and bring to me. You’ll have two weeks to return.” Hopefully enough time for tempers to cool, Treville thought to himself.

 

If the Gascon had an issue with being sent on a solitary mission, he didn’t voice it, and his expression remained just as stony as it had been the entire time he’d been in Treville’s office. A part of the Captain was actually impressed that the normally exuberant man had been able to contain himself so well, putting his emotions aside and demonstrating that Athos’ lessons of head before heart were taking root. Unless one knew what to look for, d’Artagnan would appear completely composed, but Treville was among the few who could read the young man – perhaps not as well as his three closest friends, but he was still able to recognize the minor cracks in the young man’s seemingly unruffled façade.

 

Sensing the conversation was drawing to an end, the Gascon asked, “Shall I depart now?”

 

Treville inclined his head in agreement, and watched as the young man turned smartly on his heel and moved toward the door. In that instant, the Captain felt as though he should say something more and he opened his mouth to speak, only to remain silent as d’Artagnan left when he realized there was nothing more to say. He knew that the young man would be punishing himself already for what had happened, and the fact that two of his closest friends were among those affected would be troubling the boy deeply. Scrubbing a hand across his face, he assured himself that he’d done everything in his power to minimize the fallout of the accidental poisoning and returned his attention to the parchments on his desk, still faced with the need to assign his healthy men to the duties that remained. 

* * *

The two men stood close together, their heads leaning toward one another to create the illusion of privacy as they conferred in one corner of the courtyard. The space was unusually empty, but still they were cautious, knowing that Treville would take action against them if their conversation was overheard.

 

“Look at him,” Paseur sniped, clearly unimpressed with the sight of the young Musketeer preparing to leave. “Poisons half the regiment and then rides off without a care in the world.” The man at his side grunted in acknowledgement, his gaze firmly fixed on the Gascon. “They claim it was an accident, but how could you _accidently_ make a meal that makes everyone ill. And, he doesn’t even stick around to help deal with the mess he made.”

 

The Musketeer glanced at his comrade to ensure he still had the man’s attention, and when he was satisfied that he did, he went on. “Heard Treville talked to him this morning and I thought the Captain would deal with him, but now here he is, saddling his horse and getting ready to leave. We were up half the night taking care of the sick, but do you think we’ll be excused from duty today?” The question was clearly rhetorical and the man didn’t wait for a reply. Taking another breath so he could continue, he was startled as his companion interrupted.

 

“If the Captain won’t deal with him, then we will,” Garon stated emphatically, still staring resolutely at d’Artagnan who was loading the last of his supplies.

 

The comment got Paseur’s attention and his mouth turned up with glee at the thought of retribution. “What did you have in mind?”

 

Garon considered the man at his side for a moment before adopting a look of casual indifference, shrugging slightly as he replied, “No idea but there’s no way the men will let this go.”

 

Paseur’s expression dropped in disappointment, but he nodded in agreement, having hoped that his friend would suggest something more direct rather than leaving things in others’ hands. He looked up as Treville appeared on the balcony above them, indicating it would soon be time for morning muster and the distribution of the day’s assignments. With a sigh, Paseur nudged his friend, indicating their commanding officer above, and they slowly drifted apart, watching as the Gascon mounted his horse and rode out through the gates.

 

If d’Artagnan had noticed the long looks and hostile glares thrown in his direction, he’d shown no indication, intent on packing his things and leaving as quickly as possible to escape the heavy feeling of guilt that hung over him like a shroud. During the first half-hour of his trip, d’Artagnan sat stiffly in the saddle, his hands clenched tightly around his horse’s reins as he forced himself to forget about the long silences and resentful looks he’d garnered as he’d moved about the garrison while preparing to depart.

 

While no one had been overtly rude to him, there had been no welcoming smiles or greetings, and the few men who’d met his gaze had glared harshly in his direction, making him quickly avert his eyes to escape the accusation in their faces. He needed no reminder of what he’d done, painfully aware of how he’d singlehandedly crippled the regiment. The worst part, however, was that his error had hurt his friends, and he felt especially guilty about the setback he’d caused in Aramis’ recovery.

 

d’Artagnan and his friends had spent so long worrying about the marksman that it seemed incredibly unfair that he would be one of the ones to be so severely affected. Even worse was the fact that Aramis’ already weakened condition had magnified his symptoms, and now d’Artagnan was forced to leave without the knowledge that the man would at least be alright.

 

Perhaps that was part of his punishment, he thought, wondering if the Captain had intentionally planned it this way. It seemed out of character though, and while Treville was a hard man, he was never unfair, dealing with his troops with strength and compassion. The thought made him fleetingly wonder what his punishment would be, but he found himself unable to truly focus, confident that whatever the Captain doled out would be nothing less than what he deserved.  

 

His musings accompanied him as he wove his way through the city, and he soon found himself outside of its walls, two roads south stretching out before him. The sight would have usually loosened his heart, the open spaces welcoming and reminding him of his earlier years in Gascony. Today, the intersection only reminded him of his solitary journey, reinforcing the fact that he was alone because no one could, or would want to travel at his side. The realization was a painful one that made his breath hitch for a moment, and d’Artagnan recognized that perhaps the decision between the two paths ahead of him was not the only one he now faced.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As he raised bleary eyes to first Porthos’ and then Athos’ gaze, he saw only disdain, all shreds of their previous bonds erased with Aramis’ passing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the great reactions to the last chapter and I hope you enjoy this one. Thanks also to AZGirl for her wonderful beta skills.

“Come,” Athos called when the knock at his door sounded. He was at Aramis’ side again, helping the man to purge helplessly, even though he had nothing left in his stomach but bile. It had been that way for several hours now, and Athos been unable to even get the ill man to take water, a fact that was ratcheting his concern ever higher with each passing minute. He didn’t even spare a glance at the newcomer who walked through his door, merely inclining his head towards Porthos to indicate that the man should check on his other sick friend who still lay on the pallet on the floor.

 

Instead, the man approached and stood waiting patiently at Athos’ side until the marksman stopped heaving, and the older man laid him gently back onto the mattress. “How is he?” a voice asked softly, and the Musketeer was surprised when he turned his head and found Treville standing there, his face a mix of concern and compassion as he observed Aramis’ obviously poor state.

 

The question forced Athos to put into words his deepest fears, and acknowledge that his friend was growing worse and not better. He pinched the bridge of his nose against the headache that had stubbornly taken up residence there and refused to leave, the pain spiking each time Aramis whimpered at his stomach’s agonizing rebellion.

 

Dropping his hand to his lap, the Musketeer looked back at his commanding officer, his expression more vulnerable than the Captain could remember in quite some time. It unnerved Treville to see his lieutenant so openly afraid and he drew a deep breath, resolving to at least try to offer some support and comfort to the man. “I’ve asked the physician come to look him over,” he said, understanding that Aramis’ condition was beyond Athos’ knowledge to deal with. “I assume you’d prefer to care for him here?” The Musketeer gave a nod as his shoulders slumped in relief at the idea of getting some proper help.

 

The Captain seemed to sense Athos’ feelings and he placed a hand on the man’s shoulder, squeezing it for a moment before moving away to check on Porthos. He was surprised when his lieutenant spoke. “He’s been resting comfortably for a couple hours now, and I think he may be past the worst of it.” Treville nodded in acknowledgement, doing a quick of check of the large man to confirm what Athos had said. Returning to the bed, he noted his lieutenant’s haggard features, his face framed by an untidy mop of hair which had no doubt been tugged at several times as Athos struggled to aid his ailing friend.

 

“Athos,” Treville kept his voice low and the tone gentle, approaching the solider as one might deal with an overtired child. “You’re clearly exhausted and you need a break. Go lay down while I sit with him.”

 

The Musketeer looked torn, his body crying out for the relief of a few minutes’ rest while his heart and mind raced with worry at what might happen if he slept. “Athos,” the Captain tried again, able to clearly read the doubts that kept the man sitting at Aramis’ bedside. “You’ll still be here if he needs you, but you won’t be much help if you push yourself any longer. Please.” It was the last word which undid him; Athos nodded mutely as he rose, swaying for a moment as his body reminded him again of the many hours that he’d spent awake and slumped in the chair.

 

Treville waited until the weary man had grabbed a blanket for himself and curled up on the ground next to Porthos, his sense of responsibility guiding him to his other friend’s side. Athos’ breathing evened out into sleep almost at once as the Captain took the chair at Aramis’ side. Treville’s hand automatically moved to touch the ill man’s warm, dry skin, his frown deepening at the result. He’d looked in on many of the sick men at the garrison, but he could honestly admit that none of them had looked quite as poorly as Aramis, the normally vibrant marksman appearing just one step away from death. He knew without a doubt that he would need to do everything within his power to prevent the man’s passing, not just for Athos’ and Porthos’ sakes, but to safeguard the future of the young man he’d sent away that morning. 

* * *

The rhythmic sway of his horse had d’Artagnan’s eyes threatening to close by lunchtime, and he grudgingly admitted to himself that he had to stop or risk injury from falling off his mount. Finding a spot that was somewhat shaded, while also keeping him from the prying eyes of anyone else riding by, he settled his back against the warm, broad trunk of a tree as his horse grazed several feet away.

 

He picked uninterestedly at a piece of bread, knowing that it would have to be eaten first before it hardened into something even more unpalatable. He really didn’t feel hungry, and yet a small portion of his mind reminded him that he hadn’t eaten since the previous night; regardless of his interest, his body required fuel in order to keep going. Chewing the bite tiredly, he chased it down with a large swallow of water, the liquid far more appealing than the dry food.

 

Managing one more unappetizing piece, he rewrapped the remainder and put it aside, taking another generous drink before placing the water skin next to his discarded meal. His mind was still buzzing with the previous night’s events, but his body begged for a few moments’ rest. Despite his ongoing worry, his eyelids drifted closed and he dropped off to sleep.

 

_“I knew you were trouble from the moment you set foot in the garrison,” Athos declared, the look of contempt obvious in his normally handsome features which were now formed into a mask of hatred. “I’ll never understand why the others thought we should waste our time on you.”_

_The words made d’Artagnan’s head reel, unable to comprehend why his best friend would say such spiteful things. “Athos,” he began, but was interrupted almost at once._

_"No, you are a selfish whelp who thinks only of his own needs and causes harm to his friends as a result," Athos spat, pausing for a moment as he seemed to reconsider. “Or perhaps you never felt the bonds of friendship at all, and merely pretended to care so you might get close to us and have an opportunity to attack from within.”_

_“What?” the Gascon’s head was spinning, the older man’s accusations coming fast and furious, and making it difficult to follow the seemingly disjointed train of thoughts that were spewing forth. Never would d’Artagnan have believed his mentor capable of such ideas, having assumed that he’d made his fealty to his brothers clear and beyond contention. To hear such allegations being directed at him made his head swim dizzyingly, leaving him no opportunity for coherent thought, and no ability to formulate a defense._

_“I should have known better than to allow another to ingratiate himself,” Athos said, his volume falling somewhat as he poked a finger harshly at the young man’s chest, forcing the Gascon to take a step backwards as the other man crowded into his personal space. “This is as much my fault as yours,” he continued, his voice filled with regret as he momentarily lowered his eyes and shook his head. “God has given me too many opportunities to learn my lesson, but I failed once again, and this time Aramis has forfeited his life for my ignorance.”_

_Aramis was dead? The words echoed in d’Artagnan’s head as he racked his brain for some memory of the marksman’s passing. There was nothing and Athos had turned away from him, slowly striding away in clear dismissal. The Gascon opened his mouth in protest, but another’s voice interrupted before he could do more than draw breath to speak._

_“You killed my best friend.” Porthos’ voice boomed like thunder, the certainty of his tone making d’Artagnan cringe. “He extended his hand in friendship and was never anything other than steadfast towards you - this is how you repay him?” The man’s words had steadily gained in volume and Porthos was fairly shouting by the end, d’Artagnan cringing away from the venom that dripped from the Musketeer’s statement. The large man was moving forward now, and the Gascon was again forced to step back as Porthos menaced him with his physical presence. “You had nothing when you came to Paris, and without us you’d still have nothing, just a farm boy from Gascony turned orphan.”_

_d’Artagnan winced at his former friend’s declaration, the man having picked his words well and choosing those that remained at the heart of the young man’s deepest fears and darkest nightmares. It was true that he’d had nothing; nothing but the support and guidance of three of the King’s finest. With their unwavering faith, tutelage, and ultimately their friendship, d’Artagnan had gained the skills necessary to win his commission and create a new future for himself in Paris._

_Incredibly, all it had taken was one foolish mistake, made carelessly, but without malice, to bring everything crashing down around him. The realization made his breath catch in his chest, and as he raised bleary eyes to first Porthos’ and then Athos’ gaze, he saw only disdain, all shreds of their previous bonds erased with Aramis’ passing. He felt his legs grow weak and he slipped to the ground, landing jarringly on his knees as the tears began to fall. He watched the large, fat drops stain his breeches with their moisture, but could not seem to lift his head, mesmerized by the sight of each tears’ landing. Drawing a ragged breath, he felt someone pushing his shoulder, but he resolutely ignored it and the force repeated, harder this time, calling for his attention._

Slumped on the ground against the tree where he’d fallen asleep, d’Artagnan startled awake, shocked to see his horse standing beside him and nudging his shoulder with its head as if to remind him that it was time to go. Groggily, he pushed the animal’s soft muzzle away, the horse quietly nickering in protest, but taking several steps to the side regardless. He scrubbed angrily at his face as he tried to brush off the remnants of his dream – nightmare, he automatically corrected. Obviously his worries had followed him into sleep, conjuring his worst fears and bringing them to life. Taking a shuddering breath, he tried to convince himself that his friends would never behave in such a manner. Not only that, but when he’d left, Aramis still lived, and d’Artagnan knew the others would not let the marksman slip easily away.

 

Pushing to his feet, he braced himself momentarily against the tree, bending over carefully to pick up his provisions so he could pack them away again. He took a deep drink from his water skin before repacking it, the cool liquid refreshing him a little and helping to further chase away the last traces of his dream. With a slightly shaky hand, he gripped the saddle and pulled himself up, taking a second to take several deep breaths before guiding his horse back to the road.

 

For a moment, he considered turning around, his need to know Aramis’ fate warring with his duty to fulfill his mission, but he knew that returning now was not an option. Athos would not thank him, and he would only find himself in more trouble with Treville. So, with a heavy heart, he turned his horse towards his destination and nudged the animal into a canter. 

* * *

The hours passed slowly and Athos was warmed to find Treville still at Aramis’ side when he woke. His body felt old and worn, the effects of the previous night stubbornly hanging on despite the few hours’ rest he’d managed. He rolled carefully onto his back from his side, cradling his sore arm against his chest as he breathed through the pain. The wound hadn’t been serious, but getting shot hurt regardless, and he’d denied himself any sort of relief in favour of keeping a clear head so he could care for his brothers.

 

Even while d’Artagnan had stayed, he could not trust the boy enough to allow himself a modicum of relief, the fact that his friends were once more suffering due to the young man’s actions echoing relentlessly through his aching skull. He allowed himself a full minute to feel sorry for himself before pushing up gingerly, pleased to find that Porthos was already awake and sitting at the table with a blanket around his shoulders.

 

He caught the larger man’s eye as he stood, Porthos giving a slight dip of his head in acknowledgement, and then he moved to the bed, his gaze roving over the marksman’s body to assess his friend’s condition. Athos was unhappy about what he saw, Aramis still pale and incredibly still, his breaths coming in quick, shallow pants that made it appear that the man was in pain. Without thought, he leaned forward and brushed a stray lock of hair out of the man’s face, and took a small measure of comfort in the fact that the marksman’s skin was warm to the touch. “The physician believes he’ll recover,” Treville said, noting his lieutenant’s uncharacteristic display of affection.

 

Athos looked up sharply at the Captain’s words, having no memory of anyone else being in the room. “You were exhausted, Athos,” Treville answered the unspoken question, considering that the man in front of him would have benefitted from a few more hours’ sleep. The Musketeer gave a small nod, but remained quiet and the Captain rose from his chair, taking a moment to stretch stiff muscles as he prepared to leave. “I have to return to the garrison and check on the others.” The comment was met by another distracted nod from his lieutenant. “I’ll keep you off duty for as long as possible. Send word to update me later.”

 

Athos was already moving to take Treville’s vacated seat, and the Captain placed a hand on the Musketeer’s shoulder to get his attention. “I want to hear how _everyone_ is doing,” he emphasized, his eyes dipping momentarily to Athos’ stained sleeve.

 

At his commanding officer’s words, Athos’ gaze drifted to Porthos and he saw the guilt etched in his friend’s features, filing the information away to deal with later as he replied, “I’ll ensure you’re updated accordingly.”

 

Treville offered in a thin smile in return, moving toward the door where he paused, “I’ll have Serge bring you something later.”

 

Athos held the Captain’s eye momentarily as he answered, “Thank you.” Treville understood that the man was not referring to the food, but to the fact that he’d come himself to check on them and had stayed to care for Aramis while Athos slept. He dipped his chin in reply and left, wondering what he would find upon his return to the garrison.

 

At the table, Porthos remained hunched in his seat, his stomach muscles sore and his head still pounding, but no longer tired enough to lose himself to sleep. He’d been up for nearly an hour, which had been enough time for him to get the story from Treville about what had happened to himself and Aramis. What was unclear, though, was the cause of Athos’ wrecked sleeve, the fabric heavily stained with red and hanging loose where the material had been torn apart.

 

He had a vague memory of discharging his pistol, and hoped that his fractured thoughts were wrong and that he hadn’t actually shot one of his closest friends. With effort, he pushed himself to his feet, shuffling to the bed where he lowered himself down at its edge, still too unsteady to stay standing for any length of time. “Captain told me what happened,” he began, his voice hoarse and raw after hours of sickness.

 

Athos’ attention remained on the marksman, his body still as he stared at the comforting rise and fall of the ill man’s chest. “I’m sure it was an accident,” Porthos offered, hoping to draw the man into conversation. “His heart was in the right place, Athos,” he persisted, not any happier with the situation, but aware that Aramis would not want the four of them to return to the discord they’d just recently overcome.

 

The older man dropped his head and closed his eyes, remembering the expression of torment on d’Artagnan’s face when he’d realized what he’d done. It had been painfully clear that his actions had been unintentional, but the effects were no less terrible to deal with. The thought of losing two of his closest friends, although it seemed that only one was still in peril, had struck too close to home. It wasn’t as though they hadn’t faced the possibility of death before, but this instance seemed so senseless. There was no mission and no honour in it, and Athos could not accept that a foolish mistake might still take someone he loved from him.

 

Scrubbing a hand across his face as weariness began to creep up on him once more, Porthos spoke. “Treville sent the boy on a mission.” He was gratified to see a flicker of interest pass across the older man’s face as he raised his head and opened his eyes. “Said it was to let tempers cool, though I’m bettin’ d’Artagnan doesn’t see it that way.”

 

Athos closed his eyes again, picturing the young man’s contrite expression, the guilt of what he’d done oozing from every pore, and he had no doubt that Porthos was accurate in his assessment. The Gascon would be punishing himself more than anyone else possibly could, and Athos knew that his own censure of the young man had fueled the flames of remorse that now consumed him. Despite that knowledge he could find no forgiveness in his heart while Aramis lay so close to death, and he couldn’t offer Porthos the comfort he sought by acquiescing to his need to reconcile with the Gascon upon his return.

 

“He acted thoughtlessly and must face the consequences.” The large man drew breath to protest, but Athos cut him off as he bluntly stated, “How can you be so quick to forgive when Aramis’ fate is still uncertain?” The words were intentionally cruel and meant to end the conversation, a goal that Athos achieved exceedingly well as Porthos clamped his mouth shut, his own guilt rising again in his chest as his eyes returned to the stained linen on the older man’s shoulder.

 

Clearing his throat and then wincing as the action renewed the soreness there, Porthos asked, “Did I shoot you?”

 

Athos had known that his wound would have to be addressed, but had hoped to have more time before discussing it. Forcing himself to speak evenly he replied, “It was not your fault.”

 

“Athos,” the larger man interjected quietly. “I could have killed you.”

 

Fixing his gaze on his friend, the older man repeated, “It was not your fault.” At the continued look of disbelief on Porthos’ face, he pressed on. “Serge explained that confusion is a common side-effect and you acted to protect us. You cannot accept responsibility for something that was out of your control.”

 

Porthos looked unconvinced, but he gave a small tilt of his head in acceptance, if not agreement, of his friend’s words. He looked back at the marksman’s sleeping form and softly asked, “What now?”

 

Finding his volatile emotions again threatening to take hold, Athos forced down a sigh of frustration as he answered, “Now, we wait.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Such was his focus that he wasn’t aware of the approaching man until he’d been grabbed from behind, a strong arm wrapped around his throat while another hand held a dagger to his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the continued interest in this story, and to AZGirl for her great beta skills. Warning in this chapter for some icky moments ahead - you'll know what I mean when you get there. Enjoy!

The light of the day was beginning to fade when he began to notice the first signs of discomfort. First, it was the occasional twinge in his belly, suggesting that whatever he’d consumed was not agreeing with him. Next came the overly rapid heartbeat as the powerful muscle spasmed, the speed of its rapid contractions uncomfortable as his anxiety ratcheted and his breathing sped up in response. The discomfort in his gut increased and he was soon forced from his horse in order to seek a private location where he could void his bowels, the act painful in its intensity and followed soon after by violent vomiting. He continued in this fashion until he lost all track of time, caught up in an unending cycle of misery which he seemed incapable of escaping.

 

His body was covered in a cold sweat and he shivered as the last of the sun’s rays dipped below the horizon, but he was too weak to even consider rising in order to gather wood for a fire. His awareness continued to waver in and out, and he was barely coherent of his surroundings, dropping frequently into a light doze before being rudely woken by his body’s need to purge itself once more.

 

He wondered absently if he was dying, the intensity and swiftness of his illness terrifying, and overriding his ability for rational thought. He spent the entirety of the night slumped against a tree next to his sickness, unable to shift more than a few inches away from it as his limbs flailed uselessly when he tried to move, refusing to obey even the simplest of commands. His throat and stomach burned and his head throbbed, and he moaned softly in distress, vaguely recalling that he was all alone and far from any sort of help.

 

When the new dawn arrived, his mind was still heavily wrapped in fog, praying only for some sort of relief from the wretchedness that had gripped him for so many hours. His mouth was dry, and as much as he craved something to drink, his stomach was ready to rebel at the mere thought of consuming anything. As he lay on the cold, hard ground, he slowly became aware of his surroundings, recognizing birdsong and then the smell of the grass, the ground still damp with morning dew.

 

Gradually, he gathered enough strength and courage to open his eyes, slamming them shut almost immediately when the early light sent a spike of pain through his brittle skull. He focused inwards, forcing himself to concentrate on his breathing, the pain slowly ebbing with the regular expansion and contraction of his chest.

 

When he felt ready to try again, he lifted a clumsy hand to his face, shading his eyes as he pried gummy lids open, this time succeeding in opening them to mere slits, and managing to keep them open as he slowly adjusted to the light of day. His hand shakily lowered to fall to his chest, and he looked around him without moving his head, unwilling to unsettle the tenuous truce he’d managed to achieve with his dissenting body.

 

He vaguely remembered staggering from the side of the road as his need to empty his bowels had overcome him, and he wondered if the spot he’d found was far enough away to prevent him from being seen by any passing travellers. His gaze moved downward next as his nose scrunched at the offensive smell at his side, and he rolled in the opposite direction, propping himself up on his left arm lest he be unable to raise himself up again from the ground.

 

His mount was several meters away, grazing fairly contentedly, and he silently thanked whoever had been looking out for him and had kept the beast close. He shuddered to think about what would have happened if the animal had run off in the night, leaving him stranded and taking the majority of his supplies with it.

 

Deciding that he needed to get up, if only to see if he was able to manage it, d’Artagnan used the tree at his back to rise, standing hunched over his knees for over a minute as the world settled around him. He could feel minor tremors in his muscles and was shocked at how wrung out he felt, the sickness he’d suffered sapping much of his strength. Worst of all was that he had no idea of its cause, having had nothing to eat or drink in the past day other than a few bites of bread and some water.

 

Shakily, he pushed away from the tree, taking careful, measured steps towards his horse while trying to ignore the amount of concentration needed to accomplish the task. Such was his focus that he wasn’t aware of the approaching man until he’d been grabbed from behind, a strong arm wrapped around his throat while another hand held a dagger to his neck. He jolted against his captor in surprise, the man behind him holding fast and jerking him back strongly to stop any potential aggression. As the arm tightened and cut off his oxygen, d’Artagnan’s hands lifted to tug helplessly at his attacker without success.

 

“Enough!” a voice commanded, and the Gascon looked up in surprise to see three men grouped loosely around him in a rough semicircle, inhaling gratefully when his captor’s grip loosened minutely. He cursed his inattention as he realized that he’d been taken completely unaware, and was now in no position to fight back.

 

Choosing to go on the offensive, d’Artagnan mustered as much strength as he could as he croaked, “Release me. I’m a Musketeer on King’s business, and you have no right to detain me.”

 

The man in front of him smiled widely, revealing a row of yellowed and rotting teeth. d’Artagnan did his best to keep his expression confident as the man shared a look of glee with his companions. “Think we’re scared of a baby Musketeer?” The comment had the men laughing and the Gascon could feel the man at his back chuckling as well.

 

Deciding that a different approach was required, the young man questioned, “What do you want?”

 

The bandit’s eyes shone brightly as he leaned forward and replied, “Whatever you have to give us, of course.”

 

d’Artagnan’s eyes widened momentarily before he remembered that he carried nothing of value, the item he was supposed to collect not yet in his possession. Adopting an uncaring look, he countered, “Then you’ll be disappointed as I have nothing to give you.”

 

The man moved more quickly than the Gascon expected, striding forward to close the distance between them and driving his fist deep into the young man’s stomach. The pain of the blow was amplified by the many hours of illness he’d suffered, and for several seconds, d’Artagnan thought he might be sick again. His misery was magnified by the fact that the man who held him refused to give way, and he could not fold over his aching belly, forced instead to hang from the man’s grip until his legs were again strong enough to hold him up. As he straightened in order to relieve some of the pressure on his throat, the men converged, and he soon lost track of the fists that struck him.

 

From his right came a series of powerful strikes that had his ribs creaking and forced the breath from his chest. On his opposite side, his attacker aimed for his face, rocking his head back against the bandit who held him, and after a curse from the man behind him at the near collision between his face and d’Artagnan’s head, the Gascon was released, slipping immediately to his knees.

 

A backhand sent him reeling and falling to land on his right side, the weight of his body on his sore flank making him groan and roll momentarily onto his back, before the stomp of a booted foot to his stomach had him curling up in an effort to protect himself. The attack seemed to go on relentlessly, and all that the Musketeer could do was to lie there with his knees pulled up to his chest, with his arms covering his head, as his body was rocked time after time by each subsequent strike.

 

When they’d decided he’d had enough, he felt the men tug at his arms to unfurl him, and he fought desperately to counter their efforts without avail. The pressure of several sets of hands accompanied the tugging on his arm and he cried out, renewing his efforts to stop them as the men removed the pauldron from his shoulder. He felt the loss of it keenly as the stiff leather was pulled free, but had only a moment to mourn as a foot aimed for his head.

 

Closing his eyes in unbearable anticipation, he didn’t even register the pain of the kick before falling unconscious, leaving his attackers breathing heavily with exertion as they grinned madly at their achievement. 

* * *

Athos and Porthos had remained at their friend’s side throughout the night, the majority of the care falling to the older man while the other took it easy and began slowly to eat and drink as he worked to regain his strength. It was at Athos’ insistence that Porthos rested and didn’t do anything overly strenuous, but worry for the marksman sapped their energy more than any of their physical ills.

 

The physician had accompanied Serge’s evening meal delivery, and Athos privately thought the men’s arrival together was no coincidence, Treville knowing him well enough that he was unlikely to move away from Aramis’ side to eat. With the doctor wanting to look over his patient, the older Musketeer had no choice but to relinquish his seat, and Serge chivvied him to the table where he placed a bowl of thick, warm stew in front of him.

 

As the two men ate, Serge kept up a steady flow of conversation, relating how the men at the garrison were slowly recovering before moving on to some of the more mundane gossip that he tended to collect through his interactions with various vendors in the city who kept the regiment’s kitchen provisioned. Stealing a quick look at Athos, who’d been largely silent throughout, Porthos asked, “You see d’Artagnan leave?”

 

Serge glanced down at his lap, looking incredibly uncomfortable, but the need in the large Musketeer’s eyes had him answering. “Yeah, I gave him what I could for the journey, even though I hadn’t had time yet to make any fresh bread.”

 

The recrimination in his tone had Porthos wanting to offer the old soldier some comfort. “I’m sure he appreciated it, Serge.” The cook gave a slow nod, and it was clear that he was still bothered by something. “What else?” the large Musketeer prodded perceptively.

 

Serge gave a half-hearted shrug as he replied. “You know how it is among soldiers; we’re a tight bunch and what happened isn’t sitting right with a lot of the men.” Porthos knew there was more so he smartly stayed quiet, allowing the cook to take his time in sharing what he wanted to say. “Not everyone believes that it was an accident, and I think some may be planning to teach the boy a lesson.”

 

The words had Athos’ head lifting sharply as he felt a surge of protectiveness for his protégé. Porthos caught the change in his friend’s demeanor, privately cataloguing the reaction with satisfaction at the knowledge that the older man hadn’t completely renounced the Gascon. “What makes you say that?” Porthos asked, returning his attention to the cook.

 

“I’m not one to tell tales out of school,” Serge answered vaguely, obviously uneasy about what he knew. Again, Porthos was content to let the silence stretch, understanding that the cook would eventually feel pressured by the awkwardness of it and feel compelled to speak. Several long seconds passed before the old soldier licked his dry lips and said, “I heard some of them talking about gettin’ even with the boy, but I don’t know what they were plannin’ to do.”

 

Athos’ hard stare was now firmly fixed on the cook as he questioned, “Who?” Serge looked away from the intimidating gaze, feeling his resolve slowly crumbling. “Who?” Athos asked again, his tone demanding.

 

The old cook didn’t want to stir up any trouble, but a part of him knew he’d divulged what he’d heard intentionally, having a soft spot for the likable young Gascon. Besides, he reasoned with himself, it was better to tell these men and let them dole out their own brand of private punishment than to bring the Captain into it. Decision made, he offered a name. “Garon.”

 

Athos’ jaw clenched as an image of the pompous Musketeer sprang to mind. Personally, he’d had little use for the man who was a fourth or fifth son of some nobleman and, as such, had been given just enough money to buy his commission, lacking the intelligence and talent to earn one on his own. It was not that he was unskilled, but he lacked the natural affinity that some demonstrated for soldiering, and would never be anything more than mediocre.

 

Upon somehow finding out that Athos had been a Comte, Garon had tried to ingratiate himself and had used the unfortunate strategy of talking down about those of their brothers-in-arms who had a less than impressive lineage. Athos’ normally standoffish countenance turned frosty as he evenly told Garon to get out of his sight and never spew such vile nonsense about any of the other Musketeers again. When Porthos had found out the reason for the other man’s abrupt departure, he’d grinned broadly and treated Athos to his evening allotment of wine from his own purse.

 

To hear Garon implicated in some form of retribution against d’Artagnan was unsurprising, the Musketeer likely believing it was his birthright to punish a commoner like the Gascon. Athos’ fist clenched tightly, and it wasn’t until he felt Porthos’ warm hand covering his own that he realized what he’d been doing. Focusing, he willed himself to relax, the large man’s hand staying in place for a few moments longer until he was satisfied that Athos wouldn’t do anything rash.

 

“Thanks, Serge,” Porthos said to the cook as the man stood to leave, having seen the physician packing up his things. The Musketeers rose with him and moved to speak with the doctor. “How’s he doin’?” the large man asked. He knew that Athos had managed to periodically rouse Aramis throughout the day, but the marksman had still been confused and in pain, although he’d managed the bit of the water that the older man had forced him to take.

 

“The fact that he is no longer vomiting and has been able to drink a little is a good sign,” the physician began. “I’m concerned by his continued exhaustion, but this may simply be as a result of this illness coming so soon on the heels of his recent injury and infection. Keep doing what you’re doing and he’ll wake when he’s ready.”

 

Porthos could see that the doctor’s words held little comfort for Athos, but he was grateful nevertheless for the man’s assistance. “Thank you, Doctor.”

 

Serge gave the two Musketeers a nod as he led the way out, Athos’ left hand unconsciously drifting up to clasp his wounded arm as he observed the sleeping marksman. The hours since the men’s accidental poisoning had been filled with anxiety, and he’d been awake for far too long, having insisted that Porthos rest so he might recover. His decision was taking its toll now, and the few hours’ sleep he’d had earlier in the day had long since been spent. He startled slightly as Porthos’ hand closed around his shoulder, the large man guiding him back to the table to sit down. Athos came grudgingly, hesitant to leave Aramis’ side, but thinking that the larger man simply wanted to move them further away so they didn’t disturb their friend’s sleep, despite there being little concern of that happening.

 

Pushing Athos into a chair, Porthos leaned forward, resting a hand on the back of the seat to brace himself as he stared at his friend. “Have you changed the bandage today?” The question was unexpected and Porthos caught the flash of guilt that passed over Athos’ face. It didn’t escape the larger man’s attention that he hadn’t asked the physician to do it while he’d been there as he grumbled, “Thought so.” As he moved away to gather the necessary supplies, he said, “Shirt on or off, I don’t care which, but I’m thinking it might be time for a clean one.” The older man looked down at his sleeve, noting that he still wore the ruined shirt from the night prior.

 

Taking a resigned breath, Athos manoeuvered the shirt over his head, grimacing slightly as the motion renewed the dull throb of his wound. Porthos set everything down on the table, pulling his chair across from the older man and pushing Athos’ refilled wine glass toward him. When Athos made no move to lift the glass, Porthos indicated toward it with his head as he began to unwrap the soiled bandage. “May as well drink it; no use having it go to waste.”

 

With a roll of his eyes, Athos reached for the wine with his left hand and took a drink as Porthos examined the stitches on his arm. “Little red,” the large man murmured and he poured some of the wine onto a clean cloth before scrubbing at the wounds. The older man bore the process stoically, although he’d emptied his glass by the time Porthos had finished, his face covered in a fine sheen of sweat from the effort of containing his pain. “Alright, off to bed with ya,” Porthos ordered, clearly expecting Athos to do as he’d been told.

 

“I cannot,” the older man began, only to stop as Porthos glared at him.

 

“Look, you’re dead on your feet, and I’m fine to look after Aramis for a few hours,” the larger man countered, his expression slowly morphing into a cunning grin. “Unless you want me to ask Treville to send the physician back to look after you.”

 

“That’s hardly fair,” Athos replied, though his body language indicated that Porthos had already won. He lifted himself wearily to his feet, bracing his sore arm at the elbow as he did a final check on Aramis, satisfying himself that the man’s condition was unchanged before returning to his pallet on the floor.

 

When he was settled, Porthos refilled his own glass and brought it with him to take his place at Aramis’ side. Resting a hand on the marksman’s head, he ran a thumb soothingly over the man’s brow as he whispered, “Time for you to wake up already, Aramis. You’ve been lazy long enough.” Not unexpectedly, his plea went unanswered and Porthos settled his stockinged feet on the edge of the bed, ready to watch over both his friends as he waited patiently for them to wake.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When his horse abruptly stopped to lower its head and have a drink, he was too far gone to adjust to the movement and toppled gracelessly from the animal’s back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and my continued gratitude goes to AZGirl for her great beta skills.

Waking was normally a longer process, but for some reason his brain warned of danger and he jolted awake with a gasp as his body tried to jackknife upwards, falling back moments later when the pain struck. It came crashing over him in waves, and he whimpered at the agony that overwhelmed his ability to think. Finally, the swells that had threatened to pull him back into the darkness ebbed, and he found himself able to slow his breathing and open his eyes.

 

Clouds drifted lazily across the blue skies above him, and as he blinked languidly, he realized that he was lying on his back in the grass. Afraid to move and reawaken the extreme pain he’d experienced earlier, he stretched his mind out to catalogue the numerous hurts he’d endured. A steady ache encircled his chest, though his right side was proving more tender than his left, the pain there spiking momentarily with each inhale. Lower down, his belly was sore, reminding him of his hours of sickness as well as the unlucky blows that had struck there. His head throbbed almost unbearably, and without conscious thought, he let his eyes close as the sunlight exacerbated the pain.

 

His memories of what had happened were vague and he cast his mind back, forcing it to work despite his aching skull, and it was then that he noted the lightness of his shoulder. To his shame, the men had stripped him of his pauldron. The beautifully tooled leather represented more than his status as a Musketeer, reflecting also the brotherhood to which he belonged and the pride of his accomplishment, after having worked so hard to attain his commission. That some thieves would overwhelm him and rip it from his body was unthinkable, yet the evidence could not be argued with.

 

He’d ridden out with the hope that his time away from the garrison would offer some small redemption for his earlier folly, but now as he lay still, his body sore and his heart filled with sorrow, it seemed that fate had other plans for him. Steeling himself for the pain of movement, he rolled carefully onto his left side, staying propped up on his elbow for several seconds as he adjusted to the new position. Next followed a shift to being fully upright, where he had to close his eyes against the dizziness that assaulted him as he sat up, keeping a hand against his creaking ribs. Gaining his feet was an act of willpower, his body sending him messages to remain still, which he steadfastly ignored. Instead, he forced himself to stand, managing to stagger several steps to a tree that he leaned against until the ground settled beneath his feet.

 

He stood there for more than a minute, fighting to achieve some semblance of equilibrium before lifting his head from his chest to examine his surroundings. He was astonished when his eyes landed on his horse, the animal some distance away from him, calmly grazing. Pushing away from the tree, d’Artagnan made his way toward the beast, grateful when he reached its side and was able to lean against its warm flank, breathing in its familiar scent. The horse seemed untouched and untroubled by what had happened to its owner. With regret, the Gascon ran his hand along the animal’s smooth back, remorseful at the loss of his saddle, which had also held his pistol and sword. The loss of his blade brought forth another surge of sadness, which he resolutely pushed into a far corner of his mind. Fortunately, the bandits had not taken the bridle, and d’Artagnan was experienced enough to ride the horse with no other tack.

 

Looking around, he was surprised to spot his saddlebags several feet away on the ground, and he moved stiffly over to settle down beside them so he could inventory what supplies remained. Incredibly, the bags were virtually untouched, save for his water skin which sat nearly empty and d’Artagnan tipped it over his mouth, cursing the heartlessness of the men for leaving him nothing more than a few mouthfuls with which to satiate his thirst. Clearly, the thieves had seen nothing much of value in the bags and he stood again shakily, pulling them up and across his shoulders and chest.

 

Walking back to his horse, he looked at the animal’s back, realizing that in his current physical condition, he would be unable to pull himself up without the presence of a stirrup. A quick scan of the area revealed a nearby tree stump and he led the horse over so he could use it to mount. Once he was atop the animal’s back, he wondered for a moment in which direction he should travel. Paris was not that far away, and in his current state it would be wise to return to the safety of the garrison’s walls. On the other hand, his failure would be another mark against him, and although he still worried about the friends he’d left behind, he was equally concerned that his reception would be a cold one. With a sigh of resignation, he turned the animal towards his original destination, promising himself that he would not return home until he’d completed the mission.

 

His muscles seemed to fluctuate between loose and relaxed to tight with knots of pain as his ride progressed throughout the day, his ribs and head throbbing in time with the sway of his horse. The sun was high in the sky, its normally pleasant rays making him squint against its intensity, while his fragile stomach coiled uncomfortably. His hours of illness combined with the heat of the day were making his need for water extreme. He racked his brain to recall the area’s terrain as he changed direction towards the west in search of a stream he vaguely remembered seeing on a map.

 

Sweat had initially beaded at his brow, and he’d angrily swept it away with a sleeve, but now there was no moisture left in his overheated body and he was feeling ill again. His tongue stuck uncomfortably to the roof of his mouth and his lips were dry and cracked, yet still he rode on, in search of his salvation in the form of water. He pushed away the feeling of nausea, determined not to lose the precious little amount of moisture remaining in his body.

 

Each ragged breath was a struggle as too little air seemed to be available for his greedy lungs. Despite his attempts to remain focused on his surroundings, each minute that ticked by increased his suffering, his posture going from mostly upright until he was slumped nearly completely over the back of the horse. His grip on the reins was loose and the leather rubbed against the palm of his hand as it began to slip through his fingers.

 

When his horse abruptly stopped to lower its head and have a drink, he was too far gone to adjust to the movement and toppled gracelessly from the animal’s back, landing partially in and partially out of the cold water. His horse shook its head in momentary alarm before its need to drink reasserted itself and it ignored the hapless rider who lay insensate at its feet, the cool liquid flowing over and around the lower half of the Musketeer’s body. 

* * *

Porthos had stayed at Aramis’ side through most of the night, trading places with Athos in the early dawn hours before waking and getting up so the two could share a late breakfast. While the marksman still looked pale, his brow had finally smoothed as the pain of his sickness eased, and for the first time since Aramis had been accidently poisoned, his two friends felt the bands of worry around their chests loosen. The physician’s visit confirmed what they already knew in their hearts – the marksman would recover and it was just a matter of time before he woke. Having anticipated such news, Serge had included some broth with his morning meal delivery, which Athos placed by the fire to keep warm.

 

It was the murmur of his friend’s hushed tones that eventually guided Aramis to wakefulness, the soothing voices washing over him as they gently tugged at the edges of his awareness. Slowly, in stages, the marksman made his way back, pushing away each subsequent layer of black to reveal another level of consciousness. The first sense to sharpen was his hearing, the soft murmurs taking form until he could make out his friends’ words; what he heard worried him, the two men discussing the amount of time he’d been asleep. The next thing he became aware of was the stale smell of the room, and he unconsciously crinkled his nose in distaste. Porthos noticed the action and motioned towards Aramis with one hand, both men stilling as they waited to see if their friend was finally ready to rejoin them.

 

Aramis was unaware that the two had fallen quiet, his attention now focused inwardly on the residual soreness in his abdomen, the muscles there not yet recovered from his bouts of sickness. Unknowingly, he let out a low moan, beginning to shift a hand to cradle the sore spot before it was caught in another’s. The touch guided him back as Porthos’ low baritone coaxed, “Come on, Aramis, open your eyes. You’ve been sleeping long enough.”

 

The marksman wanted to comply, but his body felt heavy, his eyelids refusing to obey his commands. A hand cupped his cheek and his head was turned slightly; his lips quirked in response at the caring that was conveyed through the simple touch. Next to him, Porthos smiled affectionately in return, pleased at his friend’s reaction to him. “That smile might work on the ladies, Aramis, but Athos and I won’t be satisfied until we see your eyes lookin’ back at us.”

 

Porthos’ comment reminded him that he’d heard both his friends’ voices earlier, making him wonder what had happened to bring both men to his side. The curiosity prompted him to try again, and this time he successfully opened his lids, blinking lazily at the larger man’s grinning face above him. “Knew you could do it,” Porthos praised, his hand lingering on the marksman’s cheek a moment longer before letting it drift down to his friend’s chest.

 

Another voice came from his other side. “How are you feeling?” Aramis slowly rolled his head in the direction of the question, seeing Athos calmly looking back at him. As he peered at the man for a few more seconds, he adjusted his initial assessment of the older man’s expression. While Athos outwardly appeared his usual, relaxed self, the impression was spoiled the raggedness of the man’s features that spoke of little sleep and many hours of worry, something he only did when one of their foursome had been hurt. Athos seemed to sense the marksman’s examination of him and his lips turned upwards in a fond smile, Aramis’ caregiving nature coming through even though he’d just woken. Still waiting for an answer, the older man repeated his earlier question. “How are you feeling?”

 

Aramis’ brow furrowed momentarily at having forgotten to reply, and he opened his mouth to answer, his voice low and hoarse as he said, “I’ve felt better.” Moments later, he found himself being propped up higher against several pillows, a cup of water pressed to his lips and he drank gratefully, the liquid easing the rawness of his throat. The drink helped him feel more awake, but with his increased state of alertness came a greater awareness of just how uncomfortable he was feeling. As he attempted to push himself higher up on the bed, his arms shaking with the effort, he settled back with a tired exhale and asked, “Why do I feel so awful?”

 

Porthos caught Athos’ eye over top of the marksman’s head, the two silently deciding how much they should share, and the larger man replied. “You ate somethin’ that didn’t agree with you.”

 

Aramis’ face turned puzzled, all of them having had experiences with badly prepared food that had them bent almost double over the chamber pot, but that didn’t usually warrant the presence of the others at their side. The men’s level of worry seemed excessive given what Porthos had just shared. He turned his gaze to Athos, noting the hint of something lurking beneath the man’s composed mask, and he realized the two were keeping something from him. Narrowing his eyes, he said, “What else?”

 

Porthos seemed to want to fidget, but he managed to stay still as Aramis’ eyes landed on him momentarily before returning to Athos as he waited for an answer. “Nothing else,” the older man answered, his expression neutral. “You were badly affected and have been very ill. We were simply worried.”

 

The last words were spoken with such raw honesty that Aramis could not argue, and he gave a small nod, wincing slightly when the action made his head throb. “You have a headache?” Porthos confirmed, noting the marksman’s reaction.

 

“Yes,” Aramis breathed out, his eyes already drifting closed against the pain and fatigue that still plagued him. He felt the blanket being pulled up to his chin, and he couldn’t help but revel in the comfort his friends were providing. Promising himself that he’d investigate further when he felt more awake, he allowed himself to be pulled into the welcoming darkness.

 

It took less than a minute for Aramis to fall asleep, and Porthos sighed softly as he sat back in his chair, his gaze shifting to Athos. The older man looked like he’d aged several years over the past couple of days, the furrows in his brow deeper and his eyes crinkled by fine lines of pain. “He won’t be put off for long,” Porthos stated, pitching his voice lowly to prevent disturbing the sleeping man.

 

Athos gave a small dip of his chin in acknowledgement. “He is particularly tenacious when he believes something is being kept from him.”

 

“What about d’Artagnan?” the larger man queried, recalling Serge’s words to them the previous night.

 

Athos rose stiffly and reached for his doublet, pulling it on carefully to avoid jarring his sore arm. “I’ll let the Captain know that Aramis is improving. Try and get him to drink some of that broth when he next wakes.”

 

Porthos arched a questioning brow in his friend’s direction. “And you’ll see what you can find out about the boy?” Athos inclined his head in agreement as he tightened the buckle of his weapons belt and tugged his hat onto his head. With a last look at Aramis’ sleeping form, he left the man in Porthos’ care, trying but failing to push aside his concern for the Gascon, which had taken root the previous night. As he walked through the busy streets of mid-day Paris, Athos let his feet guide him while thoughts of the past days’ events continued to assault his weary brain.

 

What was he to think? He understood that d’Artagnan’s actions had stemmed from genuine concern for Aramis’ flagging appetite, but the result of his lack of knowledge had almost proved disastrous, and it seemed that it had only been through God’s intervention that the marksman had begun to recover. Additionally, the Gascon’s folly had nearly decimated the garrison’s forces, leaving them woefully lacking in men to fulfill the duties normally undertaken by the regiment, a fact that must have filled the Cardinal with glee. While Athos agreed that d’Artagnan’s mistake could not go unpunished, the thought of others in their ranks acting against the young man rankled him, and even now, the idea that someone might be plotting against his protégé renewed his anger.

 

Releasing a frustrated sigh, Athos wondered if his feelings about d’Artagnan would ever be simple or if he was destined to always feel so paradoxically torn, his emotions bridging the tensions between annoyance and amusement, anger and pride, confusion and comprehension. He’d told the boy once that they were more alike than others realized, but if that were true, why was he now so baffled about what to do?

 

His musings accompanied him during the journey to the garrison and he was somewhat surprised to find himself walking through the gate, noting the absence of the usual number of guards at the entrance, which again reminded him of the consequences of d’Artagnan’s mistake. The handful of men he passed on his way through the courtyard nodded amiably enough, suggesting that they held no ill will toward the Gascon’s most steadfast companions, even if some of the looks were noticeably cooler than in the past. Strong, efficient strides brought him to the Captain’s door, and he rapped his knuckles against the wood before hearing an invitation to enter and making his way inside.

 

Presenting himself to Treville, he held his hat in one hand. “Captain.”

 

Treville gave a nod in return, guessing that the man in front of him had good news to share since it was unlikely that he would have left Aramis’ side if the marksman was still faring poorly. “Athos. I trust that Aramis is improving?”

 

“He finally woke a short time ago, and the physician has been happy with his progress,” Athos confirmed.

 

Treville exhaled slowly, not wanting his relief to be too apparent, but feeling some of the tension in his shoulders easing with his lieutenant’s words. Rationally, he knew it shouldn’t make a difference, but he recognized that there was no way that anyone in the garrison would forgive d’Artagnan if Athos and the others couldn’t; Aramis’ recovery was an important first step to achieving that objective. “I’m pleased to hear that. I’ll be able to spare you and Porthos for the rest of the day, but the regiment is stretched thin as it is, and we need every able-bodied soldier on duty.”

 

Athos dipped his chin as he said, “Speaking of which, I understand that d’Artagnan has been dispatched on a mission.” There was a brief hesitation before he added, “Alone.”

 

The Captain had known that eventually Athos’ protectiveness of the Gascon would overcome his anger at the boy, but was inwardly surprised that it had happened so quickly. Clearing his throat, he replied, “Yes, I had few options available to me and thought it might be best for him to be away from the garrison for a few days.” Eyeing his lieutenant carefully, he asked, “Do you disagree?”

 

Athos shook his head slowly, obviously aware of how strongly some of the Musketeers must have reacted. “No,” he paused as he searched for the right words. “Serge intimated that some of the men might have plans to dole out their own form of punishment.” Having no further information to share, he trailed off.

 

Giving the other man a moment to continue, but receiving nothing further, Treville answered. “That was my concern as well, and the reason I selected d’Artagnan for this assignment.”

 

Athos had a faraway look in his eyes and the Captain allowed the silence to stretch, the quiet finally prompting his lieutenant to say more. “You’re not concerned about a plan having been enacted before the boy left?”

 

Treville’s eyes narrowed at the question. It was unusual to see Athos so unnerved and uncertain, so rare in fact that he couldn’t help but pay attention. “You suspect there is cause for concern?”

 

Again, several long seconds passed before Athos spoke. “I believe it may be prudent to investigate…quietly.”

 

The Captain’s brow was now furrowed at the other man’s troubling suggestion. The regiment knew in no uncertain terms his stance on acts against each other, his philosophy of loyalty above all clearly communicated to every man under his command. Despite that, he was known to overlook minor occurrences when the actions of one’s brothers provided a more effective lesson than Treville could dole out. However, everyone knew that he was always aware when these instances occurred and his silence on these infrequent occasions indicated his approval. In this case, he’d specifically warned the men against any acts of retribution against the Gascon, letting them know that the young man would be dealt with by him alone. To think now that his orders had been ignored, or worse, that someone had already acted against the boy was a cause for concern.

 

Having considered Athos’ statement, he gave a short nod. “You have my permission to see what you can learn, but Athos, everyone knows of your relationship with the boy – do you honestly think they’ll be truthful?”

 

Athos’ eyes glinted dangerously as he answered. “I believe that Porthos and I can be exceptionally persuasive.”

 

Hardening his gaze, Treville replied, “We’re down enough men as it is, Athos; I won’t stand for anyone else being unfit for duty as a result of your _persuasions_.”

 

With a dip of his head in acknowledgement, Athos replaced his hat on his head, the Captain’s words following him out. “You’ll report back to me immediately with anything you discover.” As the door closed behind his lieutenant, Treville’s fingers rose to his temples, rubbing in a vain attempt to soothe the throbbing of his skull. He’d given one of his most dangerous men permission to investigate a potential threat against d’Artagnan. As he cradled his head in his hands he wondered how he’d possibly thought this to be a sound idea.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Looking at one and then the other, he found himself trembling slightly when he realized that there were no defensive marks on either hand – whoever the stranger was, he hadn’t even had a chance to fight back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the continued interest in this story, and my ongoing appreciation to AZGirl for her help. A reminder also that I won't be updating tomorrow, and the next chapter will be up on Sunday.

After a few well-placed inquiries of his fellow Musketeers, Athos was able to determine Garon’s whereabouts, and was informed that the man would be returning the garrison shortly following the completion of guard duty at the palace. Athos knew he could have discovered the information by asking Treville, but he wasn’t yet prepared to disclose his suspicions, preferring to confront the man first before reporting back to the Captain.

 

As their commanding officer, Treville was a man of honor and bound by the duty of his position, curtailing the scope of actions available to him. Athos was unconstrained by such responsibilities and suspected that Garon would need more than a bit of persuasion to divulge his role in things – persuasion of which the Captain might disapprove.

 

While he waited, he’d briefly visited the infirmary, confirming what both the physician and Serge had already told him – the majority of the men affected were on the mend and would be back on their feet in the next couple of days. Although it would be several more days after that before they were at full strength, those recovering would at least be able to take on a portion of their normal duties, relieving some of the strain on the rest of the regiment. Within the infirmary walls, the reception he received was markedly more hostile than what he’d experienced earlier, offering clear proof that those who’d suffered as a result of d’Artagnan’s mistake would be far slower to forgive and forget.

 

Athos now stood underneath one of the balconies, leaning against a post as his eyes rested on the courtyard’s entrance. His patience was soon rewarded as Garon and two others appeared, the men coming to a stop and dismounting when the stable boy approached to relieve them of their horses. He waited until the three men parted ways, Garon’s companions moving toward the infirmary while Garon himself headed for the kitchen to get something to eat. Athos nonchalantly pushed himself away from the post where he’d been standing and fell into step behind the other man, his steps quicker than his prey’s so that he could close the distance between them.

 

Several feet away from the kitchen’s entrance, Garon was surprised to find a tight grip on his shoulder, which Athos used to steer the other man away from his intended destination, heading instead to a secluded section of the practice yard. The former Comte caught the flash of fear that passed over the other Musketeer’s face but ignored it, leading Garon into a corner and positioning himself in front of the other man so he’d have no chance to escape.

 

“Athos,” Garon stuttered nervously, “what’s this about?”

 

Adopting a severe expression, Athos leaned in closer as he said, “I’ve been hearing some concerning things about you, Garon; things of which the Captain would not approve.” He paused and let the man consider his words, the growing trepidation clear. “It would be best if you were honest with me rather than having to face a more formal inquiry, don’t you agree?” Athos’ earlier conclusions about the man were confirmed as a sheen of sweat appeared on the Musketeer’s brow, telegraphing his growing anxiety.

 

A tongue darted out to moisten dry lips as Garon stuttered a reply, his eyes darting to Athos’ face before quickly flitting away again at the intensity of the former Comte’s stare. “What are you…” His words were cut off as Athos’ hand slammed against the wooden wall at Garon’s back, causing the man to flinch and his eyes to momentarily close until he opened them again to see the intimidating man leaning menacingly close, his expression cold and emotionless.

 

Athos kept his arm against the wall where it had landed, the position allowing him to stand uncomfortably close to the other man. By the look of fear on Garon’s face, he knew that his proximity was more unnerving than anything he might say at this point. He stood there patiently, never shifting his gaze from Garon’s even though the Musketeer was looking everywhere but at him. Beads of sweat were now pooling at Garon’s hairline, and a trickle of moisture traced a path down the side of his face as his body betrayed what he didn’t want to voice.

 

Athos knew the signs well and was prepared to bide his time, not foolish enough to actually lay a hand on the man and give either him or Treville a valid reason to act against him. He understood that the anticipation of pain was often a more powerful motivator than the actual experience, and he was willing to allow Garon’s imagination to torment him with whatever horrible acts it was able to conjure.

 

Deciding that it had been long enough, Athos grasped Garon’s chin, exerting enough pressure to force the man’s face toward him, and was inwardly pleased at the look of terror in the Musketeer’s eyes. He held the man’s head in place and was rewarded seconds later as Garon released a small puff of air, clearly having come to a decision. The man’s tongue darted forth once more, and Athos stopped himself from recoiling in disgust at the he nervous tic that made the man in front of him appear more like a reptile than a member of the King’s elite guard. “I had nothing to do with it,” Garon squeaked as he pulled his head back and out of the Musketeer’s hold, and Athos had to contain his exasperation that the other man was still unwilling to admit what he’d done.

 

Narrowing his eyes dangerously, he closed the space between them again, leaning in closer until Garon’s head knocked against the wood at his back. “Nothing to do with what?” Athos asked, his voice low and menacing.

 

Garon seemed unwilling to say anything more so Athos casually looked over his shoulder, checking first in one direction and then the other to ensure their privacy. At the motion, the Musketeer squeaked as he anticipated the older man’s actions against him. Returning his steely gaze to Garon, Athos deliberately smiled, his expression devoid of any mirth and reinforcing the fact that he would happily hurt the man before him. His captive physically shuddered and Athos leaned closer yet, until the men’s chests were touching, the former noble letting some of his weight press against Garon, increasing the man’s feelings of being trapped.

 

Garon swallowed with difficulty as his lips parted, the first words out of his mouth falling over each other in a collection of nonsensical mumbles. Athos’ hand thumped once more against the wall at the other man’s back, causing the Musketeer to quake again. With an effort of will, Garon reopened his eyes and forced himself to speak. “I heard some of the men talking about giving d’Artagnan a taste of his own medicine,” the frightened man stammered. “Nothing serious, just enough to make him sick, too.”

 

Athos’ gaze hardened as he hissed, “After seeing what your brothers endured, do you honestly think this was nothing serious?” Garon’s eyes darted unhappily away before giving a quick shake of his head. “Tell me the rest,” the older man commanded.

 

The cringing Musketeer gave a shrug as he went on. “I don’t have anything concrete, just that they might have tampered with his water skin before he left.”

 

Confirmation that something might have already happened to the young man made Athos’ stomach clench uncomfortably. “Tampered with it how?” he demanded.

 

Garon bit his lip as though trying to decide whether or not to reply, before mumbling, “Spindleberry.” Athos’ brow furrowed as he struggled to recall anything he might know about the plant, but his mind was blank.

 

Turning his attention back to the cowering Musketeer, he asked instead, “Who added it to his water?”

 

Several moments passed with Garon looking to the side as he avoided the older man’s stare, and then the man seemed to transform. Within seconds, the recently cowering Musketeer drew himself up and the lines of worry smoothed from his face as he turned back to meet Athos’ gaze. He shook his head determinedly as he replied, “No. I won’t tell you anything else.”

 

Athos’ hand slammed against the hard wood again, and although the action made Garon flinch, his face remained set. “Do whatever you want to me, but I won’t become the new target for the others.” Something flickered in the older man’s eyes and the Musketeer seemed to pick up on it as he said, “You can’t hurt me. Treville wouldn’t allow it, which means I’m not telling you anything.”

 

Garon’s posture gained confidence over the next several seconds until he raised a hand and pushed at Athos’ chest. The older man remained in place for a moment, before pulling back. Although it was clear that Garon still felt intimidated, it was not enough for him to reveal anything further. Cautiously, he moved sideways and away from Athos, swiftly walking away as soon as he was clear. Frustrated, Athos watched him go, both surprised and angry at the fact that Garon had realized that he could not actually be hurt. Although the Musketeer had provided some information, it was incomplete and still left the older man without the names of those who’d perpetrated the act against d’Artagnan.

 

As much as he wanted to pursue Garon and force the man to share everything he knew, Athos now had a more pressing need, specifically to track down the physician and find out the effects of Spindleberries. Turning on his heel, he strode out of the practice yard, taking the most direct route to the infirmary. Upon finding the doctor absent, he made his way to Treville’s office instead, deciding to give the Captain an update on his investigation.

 

A short rap of his knuckles at the officer’s door had the owner giving permission to advance, and Athos entered, pleased to find the physician standing in front of Treville’s desk. With a nod of greeting to the Captain, he addressed the other man. “Doctor, I’m glad to find you here. I need to know the effects of Spindleberries.”

 

The physician adopted a confused expression, Treville’s brow furrowing in concert as he queried, “Athos, why do you ask?”

 

“Sir, I’ve discovered information that d’Artagnan’s water may have been tampered with, and that someone may have added the berries to make him sick. I’m hoping the Doctor can tell us how severe the resulting illness might be,” Athos explained, turning his attention back to the medical man.

 

With a tilt of his chin, the Captain gave his approval for the doctor to share what he knew. Clearing his throat, the physician thought for a moment before answering. “Spindleberries can cause a great deal of discomfort: vomiting and loose bowels being among those that would be most _unpleasant_. It’s possible that whoever ingests them may also experience confusion or disorientation until the effects wear off some 8 to 12 hours later.”

 

His eyes narrowed at the list of symptoms, Treville pressed, “Would the person be at any risk as a result?”

 

“No,” the physician replied. “While it would be a very distasteful experience, there is no threat of anything more than residual weakness and a lingering soreness, not that dissimilar from any other case of illness that brings on similar symptoms.”

 

The Captain nodded thoughtfully, relieved to hear that, although d’Artagnan might have spent some uncomfortable hours, it was nothing from which he would not recover. Based on Athos’ next words, his lieutenant disagreed. “Sir, I’d like to know where d’Artagnan was headed, and have your permission to follow him to ensure he’s alright.”

 

The frown on Treville’s face deepened as he weighed Athos’ request against the needs of the garrison. Although the ill men were beginning to recover, their numbers were still woefully inadequate to handle all of their regular duties, not even counting the other assignments that had been deferred or delegated to the Red Guard. There was no way he could spare even a single man, for several more days at least. “You’re certain that the effects are no more serious than what you’ve described, Doctor?” The physician confirmed his earlier assertion with a dip of his chin.

 

Drawing a deep breath, the Captain turned to face his lieutenant as he answered, “I’m sorry, Athos. I cannot spare anyone to go after him. If it were a matter of life and death…” he trailed off, once more catching the doctor’s eye and receiving another nod of acknowledgement. “d’Artagnan will simply have to complete his mission on his own, or send word if he is too ill to do so.”

 

“Captain,” Athos began, ready to protest.

 

“Athos, my word on this is final. We have responsibilities here,” Treville countered. “ _You_ have responsibilities here. I do not sanction what has transpired, and I still want to know the names of those who acted against my orders, but until we are at full strength, we’ll have to trust that d’Artagnan is alright.”

 

Athos’ lips thinned as he bit down on his retort, wanting desperately to dispute the Captain’s statement, but recognizing the truth of his words. Momentarily, he considered disobeying the man, but realized that his defiance would not win him any favours, and could actually makes things worse for the Gascon upon his return. He offered Treville a stiff nod before exiting, intent on returning to his rooms to advise Porthos of what he’d learned. 

* * *

It had been a boring day of helping his father tend the fields. Finally, he’d received permission to have some fun, and without thought Remi had headed directly for the stream that ran along the edge of their farm. On a warm day such as today, he often found his way to the cooling waters, swimming or simply lazing on its banks with his feet dangling in the clear liquid. When temperatures began to dip, he’d find flat stones to skip along the top of the stream, watching in satisfaction when he managed to skillfully skim a pebble multiple times along its surface.

 

As he raced to the water’s edge, he’d already decided that the day’s heat warranted a swim, and his shirt was untucked from the top of his breeches as the stream came into view. So focused was he on his destination, that he almost tripped over the body which lay half in and half out of the water. Skidding to a halt, he stared, mesmerized by the still form of a man. A gentle nickering from nearby alerted him to the presence of a horse, and deciding that the beast was far more welcoming than its owner, Remi moved sideways towards it, the entire time keeping his eyes glued to the stranger on the ground.

 

The horse shied away from him, but Remi had a way with animals, and after a few softly spoken words, the horse allowed him to come closer, where he stood, stroking its velvety nose. As soon as the beast had calmed, his gaze returned to the man, and he wondered fleetingly if he was dead. The longer Remi stood watching the unmoving form, the greater his courage grew, and he finally decided he needed to check. Grasping the horse’s bridle, he led the animal a short distance away and secured him to a nearby tree.

 

Walking slowly, he made his way cautiously back to the stranger, stopping a couple feet away to examine the man. From this close, he appeared younger than Remi had expected and what he could see of his face showed signs of having been in some sort of fight. Leaning closer, the boy stuck his foot out and prodded at the man’s body, first gently and then with greater force, but there was no reaction from the man at his feet. Gaining courage with the continued lack of response, he crouched down beside the still form, reaching out a hand to poke at the man’s shoulder.

 

Taking a steadying breath, he decided to risk moving the man, and pushed at his torso before quickly stepping backwards, but the body only flopped over bonelessly onto its back. Emboldened that his actions had garnered no reaction, he returned to his previous position and watched the man’s chest, waiting for any signs of life. It took several seconds, and the breaths were short and shallow, but eventually Remi was certain that the body he’d found was not a body after all – the stranger was still alive.

 

Standing, he bit his lip as he contemplated what to do next. He recalled his father’s words of warning, but another glance at the man at his feet had him feeling confident that the man posed little danger. Remi had grown nearly three inches in the past year, a feat that had his father commenting that his son would soon be taller than him, but his newly acquired size was not nearly enough to carry the man he’d discovered. With a sigh of frustration that he hadn’t yet grown big enough to lift the stranger, he resolved that the only way to help the man was to get him onto his horse.

 

It took several minutes of quiet coaxing, pulling and pushing on his part, but he grinned in satisfaction as the horse stood back up with its owner lying across its back. Remi was certain that if they moved slowly, the man would be stable enough to not fall off. His trek back home took longer than his earlier run to the stream, and the closer he got, the greater his nervousness became as he wondered whether his father would be angry with him.

 

Before he could change his mind, his home came into view and his father was moving towards him, having been alerted to something being amiss by the presence of the horse Remi was leading. “Remi Bastien Saunier.” The young man cringed at his father’s use of his full name, correctly guessing that his father was less than impressed by his actions.

 

Before the elder Saunier could say anything further, Remi held up a hand at his father, the man now standing protectively between his son and the horse that followed. “Papa, it’s not what you think. This man is hurt. You always tell me that we have a responsibility to help those in need.” Waving a hand towards the insensate man who lay limply draped over his horse, he added, “Does he look like a danger to you?”

 

Saunier frowned unhappily at his boy’s final, impertinent comment, filing it away for later, but for now he had to admit that the _guest_ Remi had brought didn’t look the least bit likely to harm them. Deciding that now was not the time to argue, he stepped closer and gripped the unconscious man’s head by his hair, lifting it slightly to look at the face. He winced when he took note of the bruised, pale features, noting that the man was quite young and likely not all that that many years older than his own son. The comparison was enough to remind him that he would hope someone would help Remi if the boy was hurt, and he sighed in resignation with the knowledge that he would need to at least try and tend the man’s injuries.

 

As if sensing his father’s shifting mood, Remi smiled and tugged at the horse’s lead while his father walked beside the limp man to ensure he didn’t slide off. When they reached the house, the elder Saunier took charge of the young man, ordering Remi to spend a few minutes caring for the horse before gathering water and clean linen. He carried the stranger into his bedroom and laid him on the bed. He rarely slept in it anymore since his wife had passed away three winters prior, and thought it may as well have some use making the injured man comfortable.

 

Once the man was lying down, Saunier stood back and cast a critical eye over his patient. Both sides of his face wore the signs of abuse and were painted in dark bruising, but his left side had obviously taken the brunt of whatever had happened, the skin there abraded and swollen tightly over the cheekbone. The young man’s lip was split in two places and his left eye had been blackened. Placing a chair next to the bed, Saunier unfasted the stranger’s doublet, allowing the two sides to fall apart. He hesitated then, taking another glance at the man’s face which was still lax with unconsciousness.

 

Tugging gently, he pulled the young man’s shirt upwards, resolving to remove both garments once Remi joined him and was able to help. The torso he revealed made him gasp. The injured man’ stomach and chest were painted in varying shades of blues and purples, darkening to black over his right side. Saunier let the shirt fall back, stunned by the level of damage he’d found. Shaken, he reached for one of the young man’s wrists, lifting it up to examine the injured man’s hand. Looking at one and then the other, he found himself trembling slightly when he realized that there were no defensive marks on either hand – whoever the stranger was, he hadn’t even had a chance to fight back.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos watched as the marksman closed his eyes, wishing that he had the same luxury of escaping the reality of their situation, even if only for a short while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as always, to AZGirl for helping me smooth out this story's rough edges. Hope this chapter was worth the wait and thanks for reading!

It had taken the better part of an hour for Saunier to tend to the young man’s injuries. Luckily, none of what he’d discovered seemed overly serious, but he had no doubt the stranger would be sore once he finally awoke. With his son’s help, he’d cleaned and bandaged the few areas where the skin had been broken, and applied a soothing balm to the numerous bruises that colored the young man’s torso. He’d been surprised that none of their ministrations had woken their patient, though he’d shown some signs of awareness when they’d gently washed away the dirt from his face and neck.

 

Now, Saunier kept a vigil next to the bed, partly so the young man wouldn’t panic when he awoke, and partly in case the stranger meant them harm. Despite Remi’s certainty that they were in no danger, the older man had learned over the years that it was better to be safe than sorry.

 

He was broken from his thoughts by the first stirrings of awareness from the stranger, as the injured man moaned lowly, his head rolling on the pillow. Saunier watched carefully while keeping his distance, one hand gripping the pistol he’d laid in his lap. The young man inhaled deeply as he woke, the breath hitching in his chest and pulling another groan of pain from him. His compassion overcoming his trepidation, Saunier leaned forward and placed a hand gently on the stranger’s chest, trying to ease his transition into awareness. “Easy, you’re alright,” he soothed. “I know it hurts, but it’s nothing that won’t heal.”

 

The sound of his voice seemed to startle the man lying in bed, causing his patient’s eyes to shoot open only a moment before he tried to move away from Saunier’s touch. Surprised at the reaction, the older man flinched and pulled his hand back, eyes wide as he watched the injured man’s struggles for several seconds before coming back to himself. Reaching forward once more, but letting his hand hover uncertainly over the young man’s form, he said, “You’re safe. Please, stop moving, you’ll only hurt yourself more.”

 

The words had the desired effect as the stranger’s movements stopped, although Saunier reflected later, the fact that the young man was also at the edge of the mattress may have had something to do with it. The injured man lay on his side, propped up on one elbow as he panted for breath; the pain of his many hurts had obviously flared at the quick movements he’d made so soon after waking.

 

Seeing the panic that remained in his patient’s expression, Saunier slowly withdrew his hand and laid it on his thigh, holding the other man’s gaze the entire time. It took several long seconds, but finally the stranger’s breaths slowed and he blinked, seeming to finally be coming back to himself. Moments later he asked, “Who are you?” His eyes darted around the small room and before Saunier could answer, he added, “Where am I?”

 

The older man purposefully stayed seated as he calmly replied. “I am Bernard Saunier, and you are in my home. You were found injured and unconscious at the edge of our farm by my son, Remi.” He paused then, allowing the other man a short time to process what he’d heard. Seeing only a frown in response, Saunier continued. “Can you tell me your name?”

 

The stranger’s gaze lifted from where it had drifted, the young man still clearly dazed and battling exhaustion. “d’Artagnan,” he replied. Moments later he added, “I’m a Musketeer.” The statement seemed to spur a memory, and Saunier watched as the injured man lifted a hand to his bare shoulder.

 

Concerned that his guest might believe his hosts to have taken something from him, Saunier quickly interjected, “You wore nothing but your shirt and doublet when you were found. Remi has cared for your horse and your saddlebags are untouched.”

 

The Musketeer gave a weary, sightless nod as he mumbled a reply, “Was attacked and robbed.”

 

“You were robbed?” Saunier repeated, wanting to confirm the words that had been muttered so quietly as to almost be indistinct.

 

d’Artagnan gave a shaky nod, the arm that held him up beginning to tremble. “They took my pauldron and my weapons.” His eyes shifted again to the shoulder that would normally bear the insignia of his regiment, and Saunier found his gaze drawn there as well.

 

Drawing a deeper breath, Bernard brought himself back to the present, noting the pallor of his patient’s face as well as the sheen of sweat that now covered it. Pitching his voice lowly, he said, “You should probably rest now.”

 

The Musketeer began to shake his head, stopping abruptly before swallowing thickly, as his stomach threatened to rebel. He took several steadying breaths before he opened eyes that he didn’t remember closing. “No, I need to complete my mission.”

 

At the young man’s statement, Saunier’s concern deepened. Sensing the Musketeer’s stubbornness, he proposed a compromise. “How about you sleep for an hour or so, and then join us for a meal before you go. Surely, you can spare that much time to refresh yourself before setting out again?” His tone was a mix of hopeful and conciliatory, and he prayed his guest would see the reason in his suggestion.

 

Whether it was the logic of the idea, or simply the fact that d’Artagnan’s body was screaming out for rest, the result was the same; the young man paused to contemplate the offer for a moment before grudgingly giving a dip of his chin in agreement. Saunier couldn’t help but smile at having his recommendation accepted. As he rose from his chair, lightly gripping the pistol in his left hand, he asked, “Do you need any help getting settled?”

 

The Musketeer still laid near the edge of the bed, but clearly his trust in his host had been stretched to its limits as he gave a soft but firm reply, “No.”

 

The older man gave a tilt of his head in understanding and withdrew from the room, closing the door gently behind him as if sensing that the other man needed to be alone. As soon as the door shut, d’Artagnan’s arm gave out and he let out a soft grunt as his aching body impacted with the mattress beneath him. He shifted awkwardly toward the centre of the bed, breathing heavily by the time he’d finished, and his eyes slipped closed. For a moment, he fought against the pull of sleep, recognizing the need to assess his situation and plan his next move, but his body refused to cooperate. Within seconds, he was asleep, his dreams filled with the looks of disappointment on his brothers’ faces. 

* * *

Athos paused for a moment before pushing the door open to his rooms. His mind was a mix of conflicting thoughts and emotions, and he desperately craved a drink to settle the maelstrom that was madly spinning in his brain. He let his head tip forward as he leaned against the door, the solidity of the wood bracing him as he sagged against it, his eyes closed in a vain attempt to relax. When had things become so complicated, he wondered to himself, feeling the dual tensions of duty and friendship threatening to tear him apart.

 

It was true that he’d treated d’Artagnan badly, and had been unable to stop himself from once again blaming the young man for Aramis’ poor condition. When Serge had announced the Gascon’s mistake, he’d felt his anger and resentment toward the young man swell until he could no longer stand to be in the same room with the other man. As the hours had dragged on, his feelings had hardened his resolve to distance himself from the Gascon, unable to bear the consequences of the young man’s next mistake.

 

Despite the fact that he’d become incredibly fond of d’Artagnan in the time since he’d joined their ranks, he now found himself feeling forced to choose between the young man and his two other stalwart friends. It was a choice he never could have imagined making, and he was strangely surprised to find that his loyalty swung to Aramis and Porthos, leaving the Gascon as the odd man out. Although the decision to distance himself from d’Artagnan had seemed to come relatively easily, he could not delude himself into believing that he was completely at peace with it.

 

There was a part of his heart that still ached for the young man’s presence, and it was this need that had blossomed when he’d heard about the potential threat against his protégé. In that moment, the magnitude of d’Artagnan’s mistake had diminished, and the protectiveness he felt for his friend had surged anew. If asked, Athos knew he would be hard-pressed to explain his vacillating emotions, and could only state that any penalties levied against the young man should only be applied by the Captain or himself. Even as the thought solidified, he shook his head at his foolishness, recognizing that he had no more right than Aramis or Porthos to judge d’Artagnan’s actions, yet despite that realization, he could not seem to dissuade himself of the belief.

 

Drawing a deep, shuddering breath, he let the hand that rested against the warm wood squeeze into a fist, relishing the ability to channel some of his frustration into a physical manifestation. Had his friends not waited behind the door, he would have pounded against the barrier to vent some of the strong emotions currently tangling his thoughts. Instead, he lifted his fist and brought it to his bowed head, pressing it firmly against his temple as he fought for control of himself. Several long seconds passed before he felt some of his steely restraint reassert itself. Unfurling his fingers, he allowed his arm to drop to his side as he opened his eyes and lifted his head.

 

The closed door remained in front of him and he took a last steadying breath, wondering fleetingly if Porthos would notice if he poured himself a drink. Attempting to dismiss the desire, he grasped the doorknob and turned, pushing the door inwards so he could enter. He was pleased to find Aramis sitting up in bed, despite being propped up by what looked like every pillow he owned. The marksman was still pale and obviously in pain if the fine lines around his eyes were anything to go by.

 

Sitting at Aramis’ side, Porthos grinned as he greeted the older man. “Athos, look who’s finally decided to join us.”

 

Athos gave a smile as he nodded, the sight of their recovering friend loosening another of the coils that had been constricting his chest since the prior evening. “It’s good to see you up, Aramis.” Turning his attention to Porthos as he nonchalantly opened a bottle of wine, he asked, “How is our patient?” As he waited for an answer, he poured a very full glass, taking a deep swallow before returning to stand at the side of the bed.

 

Porthos’ eyebrow rose at the action, but he wisely refrained from commenting, satisfied that at least Athos hadn’t brought the bottle with him. “Better, but still weak and sore. Managed a half cup of broth,” he explained, casting a look over the ill man before returning his gaze to Aramis. Noting the green cast to the marksman’s skin, he said, “We’re _relatively_ certain it’ll stay down.”

 

Aramis scowled at his friend’s comment, but didn’t make any move to refute it. Instead, Athos watched as the reclining man swallowed thickly and wondered if Porthos’ claim had been overly optimistic. As if sensing the older man’s concern, the marksman held a hand to his chest, as if willing the meagre meal he’d consumed to stay down. “I can speak for myself, you know,” Aramis croaked, and Athos frowned at the hoarse quality of their friend’s voice.

 

Porthos immediately moved to pick up the cup of water he’d placed on the small bedside table, handing it to Aramis so he could soothe his raw throat. The marksman looked as if he wanted to refuse, but with a minor eye roll, he took the proffered water and drank. After a couple of small sips, he handed the cup back to Porthos, uttering a soft, “Thank you.” To everyone’s relief, his voice sounded much better than before, although it was still weaker than normal.

 

Athos still held his glass of wine, and took the opportunity to throw it back, returning to the table to put his cup down while also snagging a chair. He placed the latter item a few feet from Porthos and sat down. Aramis looked between the two men, noting immediately the absence of their fourth. “Where’s d’Artagnan?” He watched as his friends traded knowing looks. With a hint of panic, he asked, “He’s not sick too, is he?”

 

“No, he’s fine,” Porthos assured, throwing another glance at Athos that begged the other man to interject.

 

When neither man said anything further, Aramis crossed his arms over his chest, wincing slightly at the pressure on his still tender stomach. “What aren’t you telling me?”

 

Again, a round of silent communication passed between the other two, and Aramis’ expression darkened in annoyance. Sensing the marksman’s waning patience, Porthos offered, “Athos knows more than I do.” Turning his most innocent expression on the older man, he prompted, “Athos?”

 

With a pained look, the former Comte relented, mirroring the ill man’s posture as he crossed his arms before speaking. “d’Artagnan is away on a mission.”

 

Porthos’ eyebrow rose, but Aramis only looked surprised. “Really, with whom?” It was well-known that the four worked best together, and it was rare for them to be deployed without at least one of their group.

 

Athos refrained from fidgeting uncomfortably as he replied, “By himself.” Before the marksman could say anything more, he rushed on. “Nearly a third of the regiment was affected by the same _illness_ that affected you. As it is, Treville has had to rely on the Red Guard to take up the slack, and we are stretched thin until more men are able to resume their duties.” This time it was Aramis’ eyebrow that lifted in disbelief, recognizing instinctively that his friend was attempting to deceive him.

 

Porthos was a good liar, having honed his skills first in the streets of the Court of Miracles. Later, he’d continued to perfect the art in Paris’ many taverns, supplementing his income at the card tables. Aramis was also gifted at deception, knowing exactly the right things to say and do in order to influence those around him. Mostly, he employed his skills on the beautiful women of the nobility, his sweet words gaining him access to more bedchambers than he cared to admit. But Athos…

 

Athos was an honest man. Growing up as a future Comte had relieved him of the need to be anything other than completely, bluntly truthful. Not that Athos was ever unkind, but he never saw the value of bending the facts; of offering a white lie where it might spare someone’s feelings or garner influence. No, Athos was a terrible liar, and it was just one more way in which he and d’Artagnan were so similar.

 

While Athos sat waiting to see if his explanation would be accepted, Porthos had raised a hand to scrub over his face, already painfully aware that their ruse would not work. Letting his arm drop to his lap, the larger man caught Athos’ eye as he said, “Just tell him already.”

 

The former Comte looked back to Aramis, and the expression he found there convinced him of the wisdom of Porthos’ words. With a soft sigh, he began his explanation again, this time describing d’Artagnan’s mistake and the consequences, and ending with the information he’d garnered from Garon. It was at that point that Porthos interjected. “We’ve got to go after him and make sure he’s alright.”

 

Athos wearily shook his head. “No, Treville has ordered us to remain here unless d’Artagnan sends a request for help. There are too many duties and not enough men to attend to them. The Captain believes it will be at least a week before he can spare us.”

 

The news fell heavily and the room descended into silence until Aramis finally said, “I’m tired. I’d like to sleep now.” Athos watched as the marksman closed his eyes, wishing that he had the same luxury of escaping the reality of their situation, even if only for a short while. 

* * *

True to his word, Saunier had prepared enough food for their evening meal so that their guest would be able to join them. While it was strange to have a soldier in their home, a part of him hoped that the young man would change his mind about leaving later that night. Of course, the fact that the Musketeer wouldn’t be able to get far before darkness fell, didn’t hurt any either, and was part of the reason he’d suggested d’Artagnan rest until dinner and then have a proper meal before setting out. Saunier’s lips twitched mildly in amusement as he realized he’d used a similar ploy on his guest as he might employ against his son.

 

Bernard and Remi sat down to eat once their food was ready, the older man making the conscious decision to let the Musketeer sleep. He imagined that the young man would likely be upset at not having been woken, but Saunier believed he could justify his decision well enough by pointing out that to their guest that he would have woken on his own, had his body not so desperately needed the rest. As such, it was more than an hour after they’d cleared their dinner dishes that d’Artagnan made an appearance.

 

Bernard was sitting at the kitchen table waiting for the young man to show, carefully repairing some stitching on one of their horse’s bridles. The Musketeer was moving slowly and breathing heavily, pausing at the archway into the room and leaning against it as if spent. Saunier’s concern spiked immediately at the bruising that had deepened within an otherwise pallid face, and he noted the stiff way in which the young man held himself, one arm tucked firmly against his battered ribs.

 

Keeping his thoughts to himself, Saunier affixed a genial expression onto his face, rising and moving over to the fire where he’d kept food warming for his guest. “Good evening,” he said as he ladled stew into a bowl. “Please, have a seat.” He motioned towards the table with his head as he finished filling the dish. He worked slowly, hearing the Musketeer’s slow, shuffling gait behind him, waiting until a low grunt sounded when d’Artagnan lowered himself into a chair. Saunier stood up then, snagging a chunk of bread and turning back to his guest to place both items before him.

 

Retaking his seat, Bernard took up the bridle he’d been repairing as he encouraged the young man to eat. “Please, enjoy,” he said, intentionally looking down at the tack in his hands.

 

d’Artagnan sat hunched over the table, trying to find a position that was kinder to his sore flank. He picked the spoon up in one hand, stirring the hearty stew as his studied his host. He vaguely remembered their earlier conversation, and was still wary despite the man’s assurances. He was not normally so distrustful, but the earlier beating was a grim reminder that he needed to be more careful. Seeing nothing of immediate concern, he scooped up a small spoonful and took his first bite, eyes widening in appreciation at the flavour. Chewing, he swallowed and said, “It’s good. Thank you.”

 

Saunier looked up, a genuine smile on his face as he replied, “It was my wife’s recipe and one of my son’s favorites.” He dipped his eyes as he spoke, his expression growing more sombre as he said, “She was taken from us almost three years ago. I am only glad that I learned the recipe before she left us.”

 

The stricken look in the older man’s eyes was so reminiscent of the one he’d often seen in his own father’s face that d’Artagnan almost choked on a bite, coughing softly to dislodge the errant piece of food. He let his spoon drop back into the bowl as each expulsion of air pushed against his damaged ribs. For several seconds he braced himself with one arm on the table while the other steadied his side. Moments later, his throat was clear, and he lifted a shaky hand to his eyes to wipe away the moisture that had gathered there with the pain of his coughing. Lifting his head, he met his host’s concerned face and croaked out, “’M fine.” Clearing his throat, he repeated, “I’m fine.”

 

Saunier nodded slowly, disbelief clear in his expression. Feeling the need to explain himself to his host, d’Artagnan explained, “I lost my mother when I was a boy. We, my father and I, would always cook her favorite meal on her birthday.”

 

The older man’s eyes lost some of their sorrow, and his features tightened at their shared loss. Saunier looked down at the bridle in his hands as he said, “I hope that I can convince you to stay the night with us.” Without meeting the Musketeer’s gaze, he knew that the other man was already stiffening at the suggestion. “The sun is already setting and it will be dark soon. Surely there is nothing to be gained from a night spent sleeping under the stars?” With his last comment, he’d raised his eyes to his injured guest, hoping that young man would see his sincere concern.

 

d’Artagnan spooned another bite into his mouth as he considered his reply. It was true that he wanted nothing more than to resume his journey, but Saunier was correct that there would be no choice but to stop for the night regardless. He would gain nothing by camping outside rather than accepting the other man’s gracious offer. As if sensing his hesitation, Bernard added, “My son, Remi, was hoping to have a few minutes to meet the man he found and brought home – now that you are awake.” There was a hint of amusement in Bernard’s tone, but there was nothing malicious about it.

 

Sensing his host’s sincere desire to help, and remembering his own awe of soldiers and their stories, d’Artagnan found himself nodding. “Alright, I’ll stay the night; thank you.”

 

It was clear by Saunier’s expression that he was pleased, but he offered nothing more than a slight nod, motioning once more to the half-eaten bowl of stew. “You’ll want to finish your dinner before Remi returns from doing his chores. I’m fairly certain he’ll be plying you with questions for as long as you’re willing to indulge him.” Bertrand’s eyes shone with a father’s pride and d’Artagnan found himself agreeing again, focusing on his meal while the older man returned to his repairs.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "How can I ever trust him again?” After everything that had happened, that seemed to be the only question left which mattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the continued interest in this story. Also, thanks to AZGirl for her suggestions that improved this story.
> 
> Hope you enjoy this next part!

The elder Saunier’s predications had both come to fruition. Remi had produced a steady supply of questions until his father had finally told him it was time for bed. The young man had looked so heartbroken that d’Artagnan had been unable to resist promising they’d continue their conversation the following morning during breakfast. The Gascon also had to admit that he felt much better after a proper night’s sleep, spent on a well-stuffed mattress rather than the hard, cold ground.

 

After the morning meal, d’Artagnan had accompanied Remi out to the barn to prepare his horse, the boy nearly bouncing more than walking at his side as he supposedly led the way. When they arrived, the younger Saunier pointed to one of the stalls, announcing proudly, “I took very good care of him. I made sure he had food and water, and after dinner I brushed him until his coat shone.” Motioning to a nail on one wall, he went on. “I gave his bridle a clean, too.”

 

The Gascon’s face split into a wide grin at the boy’s enthusiasm, and his hand snaked out to give Remi’s shoulder a quick squeeze as he said, “Thank you, I’m certain he couldn’t have been in better hands.” The young man’s face flushed at the praise, and he ducked his head as d’Artagnan let his hand drop. Moving forward, he laid a hand the horse’s flank, his eyes travelling along its lean lines even as his brain approved of what he saw. Finished with his examination, he shifted his stance and reached for the bridle, dropping his extended arm a moment later as his ribs protested and he gasped in pain.

 

“Are you alright?” Remi asked in concern, already moving to grab the tack and begin fitting it onto the horse, while the Gascon held his side.

 

d’Artagnan bit his lip for a moment as he pushed back the pain, giving a nod instead of attempting a verbal response. The truth was that even a good night’s sleep was too little to erase the fiery ache of his injuries, but he didn’t want to scare the young man. Instead, he watched as the boy adjusted the bridle, his breathing finally easing enough for him to speak. “Thank you.”

 

Remi dipped his chin in reply as he grasped the reins and lead the animal outside, the Musketeer following in his wake. He was glad to be behind the perceptive young man, not needing to hide his expression of discomfort as he moved gingerly, mindful of his many tender and bruised parts. Being on a horse so soon after he’d been beaten was less than ideal, but d’Artagnan was determined to make up the time he’d lost and complete his mission. He could not risk letting Treville or the regiment down again, and hoped that his swift return would ease some of the ill feelings that he’d left behind.

 

The younger Saunier stopped the horse once they were several feet away from the barn’s entrance. d’Artagnan did his best to look around unobtrusively, recognizing that he would again need assistance to mount his steed. As if reading his thoughts, Remi nudged the animal into motion once more, leading it towards one side of the house where a fence was vainly trying to hold some scrub brush back from encroaching on the property. The boy stopped and looked expectantly to the Musketeer. “When I ride without a saddle, I climb up from the fence. I thought you could do the same.”

 

The words were spoken with complete sincerity, and with the sole intention of helping the soldier who had regaled him with exciting stories of heroism well into the night. With a smile of gratitude, d’Artagnan gave a nod and moved closer, Remi watching him with a beaming smile of his own at having been able to help a member of the King’s regiment.

 

The Gascon mounted stiffly, carefully schooling his features so that none of his discomfort showed in his expression. With a final word of thanks to his young helper, and a wave of farewell to the elder Saunier, d’Artagnan nudged his horse into a slow trot. The motion immediately pulled on his injured body, but he bit his lip and continued on, focused only on his destination and the execution of his orders.

* * *

True to his word, Treville had kept Athos and Porthos off duty for the remainder of the day, allowing them to stay by Aramis’ side. Despite the fact that they were together, their mood was unusually sombre, their thoughts occupied by the uncertainty of the Gascon’s fate. Porthos did his best to lighten his friends’ spirits, reminding them of d’Artagnan’s incredible luck, but he had little success. Athos was awash in feelings of guilt at his censure of the young man’s actions and then his subsequent conflicting thoughts, unable to decide whether he was more angry or worried about his protégé. Aramis, on the other hand, didn’t blame d’Artagnan for most recent woes. Instead, during the intermittent moments when he wasn’t consumed by his body’s profound misery, he was having a difficult time understanding the animosity he was sensing towards the Gascon.

 

Athos had returned to the garrison to collect food for their dinner, but Serge’s latest offering still lay mostly untouched, Athos having little interest in food, while Porthos and Aramis’ stomachs were still somewhat unsettled after their many hours of illness. The latter man especially had his friends worried, having consumed only a few sips of broth before pushing the cup away, his throat swallowing convulsively against the nausea he felt building. He’d managed to keep the liquid down, but the scene had Porthos and Athos trading concerned looks, wondering how long it would take the marksman to recover from this most recent setback. Aramis was unable to reassure them as he normally would, feeling weak and wrung out, and beginning to have his own doubts about ever being fit and healthy again.

 

By unspoken agreement, they’d spent the night together, Porthos and Athos feeling better knowing they were nearby if the marksman needed anything, but the ill man slept deeply if somewhat fitfully. With the morning light, Athos roused and dressed silently, careful not to disturb either of his slumbering friends. He was certain that Treville would allow Porthos a later start to the day, and just as certain that he’d be expected to resume his duties today as the rest of the regiment recovered. His early arrival at the garrison allowed him time to sit at their usual table, and he passed the time sharpening his main gauche as the men slowly awoke.

 

He continued in his repetitive task until Serge appeared before him and, with a huff, grabbed one of Athos’ hands to place an apple into it. Giving the fruit a meaningful look, the old cook disappeared as Athos let out a heavy sigh, grudgingly cutting off a piece with his newly-sharpened blade and popping it into his mouth. It was a good thing that Serge had forced him to eat, as it ended up being the only food he consumed until late that night when he returned from duty at the palace. After the long day, his injured arm ached and his head felt as though constrained by a vice. He managed only a grunt of greeting to his friends, before toeing off his boots and taking a healthy swallow of brandy straight from the bottle.

 

As the fiery liquid burned a trail down to his stomach, he met Porthos’ eyes, knowing that the other man had been on duty at the garrison for a few hours that afternoon before returning to care for Aramis. The larger man was still somewhat pale in comparison to his regular swarthy features, and his countenance showed his fatigue, but he smiled, eyes shining with their typical enthusiasm for life, and Athos felt reassured that his friend was recovering well. He glanced next at Aramis, who lay partially propped up and dozing, his features still far too gaunt for the older man’s comfort.

 

With a roll of his eyes and a resigned sigh, Porthos answered the unspoken question. “We’re fine, Athos. We’ve both eaten and were just waiting for you to get back. Any word?” The older man didn’t have to wonder what news his friend was hoping for, and he gave a tired shake of his head.

 

“No news is probably good news, and means d’Artagnan’s still on his way,” Porthos stated, although it was difficult to ascertain just who he was trying to convince. “We saved you some dinner,” the larger man offered, and Athos contemplated eating for only a moment before a lurch of his stomach had him shaking his head once more. Porthos frowned and was about to try and convince him, but a proper look at the man had him biting back his words, recognizing that sleep was likely the best thing right now.

 

As if sensing his thoughts, Athos took another long pull from the bottle in his hand before replacing the cork, and setting it down on the table. With a wave of his hand to say good night, he collapsed tiredly onto his pallet on the floor and into a deep sleep. 

* * *

d’Artagnan was exceptionally weary but he was determined that he would reach Paris by nightfall. After an inauspicious start to his mission, he’d managed to set a speedy pace that was governed only by the needs of his horse. His injured body hadn’t thanked him for it, but his willpower had overcome the persistent aches and pains that had become a part of his daily existence. Arriving in Châteaudun on the evening of his sixth day, he’d presented himself to the Comte, only to be turned away empty-handed. The nobleman had declared the man before him an imposter, and without his distinctive Musketeer pauldron, d’Artagnan had no way of convincing him otherwise.

 

His dismissal from the Comte’s estate had been upsetting and embarrassing, but not half as much as the thought of returning to the garrison without the package he’d been sent to retrieve. It was this failure that occupied his thoughts during his journey home, and he wondered how Treville or his friends could ever forgive him for yet another botched mission. Initially, he’d hoped to keep his stolen pauldron a secret, at least from the Captain, unable to face the shame of having been robbed. With the Comte’s refusal to pass over possession of the item he’d been sent to collect, the luxury of keeping anything from Treville had been lost, and he now faced the ugly fact that his commanding officer would have to be told the full story.

 

His lack of success, so close on the heels of his cooking disaster, could not possibly bode well, and d’Artagnan’s hours on horseback were occupied with the many creative ways in which he might be punished. If he were honest, being punished was the outcome he was hoping for, praying that his actions would not have him stripped of his commission instead. When his mind had worried over the situation with Treville sufficiently, his thoughts would turn to his friends, and new fears would replace the old ones as he’d wonder whether Aramis had recovered from his special meal. The idea of labelling his meal as ‘special’ had him cringing, and d’Artagnan found himself wishing he’d never offered to cook in the first place.

 

And that was the problem. With every mile that passed, he could only wish that things had turned out differently. That he hadn’t followed Aramis’ orders to follow the others, thereby leaving him vulnerable to attack. That he’d stayed by Aramis’ side more diligently so the marksman hadn’t been hurt in the first place. That he hadn’t been too proud to accept Serge’s help with his secret ingredient. That he’d been more observant and been able to fend off his attackers. That he didn’t feel like he’d brought shame upon the regiment, but most importantly his friends.

 

Things between them had been improving steadily, just as Aramis’ health had improved. At the time of their ill-fated meal, things had pretty much returned to normal, only to be ruined by his simple mistake. Athos’ eyes when he’d commanded the Gascon to leave had been hard, and lacking any of the affection that d’Artagnan had become accustomed to seeing there. As terrible as he’d felt about what Porthos and Aramis had endured because of his error, it was Athos’ censure that struck him the hardest. Worst of all, he understood that there would be no forgiveness from his mentor if either of the other two men suffered permanent consequences as a result of his mistake. If that were to happen, d’Artagnan may as well resign his commission and leave before being asked to do so.

 

With these dark thoughts weighing him down, the Gascon travelled down the hill overlooking the city, the view failing to inspire him for the first time in memory. Instead, his horse plodded through the city gates and then the streets in a reflection of its rider’s melancholy mood. He could just hear Serge ringing the bell for the evening meal as he approached, and he paused outside the garrison entrance, not quite ready to enter. The stronghold which had always represented honour and safety now held a very different meaning for him, and he couldn’t help but shudder as he considered that these might be his last few minutes as a member of the regiment. Steeling himself with a deep breath, he nudged his horse back into motion, determined to face whatever awaited him. 

* * *

The days since d’Artagnan had left had passed in relative calm, with things at the garrison slowly returning to normal. Most of the affected men had been back on duty within three days, with the exception of a couple of the more extreme cases, of which Aramis was one. The marksman’s weakened condition had meant that he’d suffered more severely, and it wasn’t until the fourth day following his accidental poisoning that he had even able to consume broth without feeling ill afterwards. Bland, thin food followed for another two days, leaving Aramis once more feeling shaky and weak, with his friends worrying over his gaunt frame.

 

As much as he wanted to, the marksman was unable to assure his friends that he hadn’t lost any more weight – he’d already had to add two new notches to his belt in order to buckle it tightly enough to stay up. Despite his slow recovery, he was getting better, and more than a week after his sickness he was beginning to enjoy the taste of food again. His friends had noticed that he was still unable to eat large meals, so they plied him constantly with smaller servings and snacks, and as much as it annoyed Aramis to have someone continually presenting him with food, the strategy was working and he was feeling better.

 

His biggest concern now was boredom as he began to regain his strength while still lacking the energy to resume his duties. This was always the hardest part of the recovery period, and the time when the others were most vigilant, understanding how tempting it was to overdo things and accidently set oneself back. As a result, there was always someone keeping an eye on Aramis, ensuring he rested and didn’t do too much, even when Athos and Porthos weren’t present. It made the days long, and he waited anxiously on his friends’ return each night, relishing the stories they would share which had now become his main form of entertainment.

 

Tonight he was waiting at their usual table, Serge already having laid out some food for them in anticipation of their arrival. It was a kindness the old cook had extended since he felt partly responsible for d’Artagnan’s mistake, and he’d taken to ensuring that Aramis always received food before the rest of the regiment so he could put on the weight he’d lost over the past few weeks. At first, the marksman had tried to dissuade Serge from giving him any special treatment, but when he realized it made the cook feel better, he simply thanked the man for his thoughtfulness.

 

Within minutes of taking his seat, he was joined by Athos and Porthos, the two men having been kept on palace duty throughout Aramis’ recovery. It was another generous act, and one which the marksman had been conscientious about thanking Treville for when he’d had the chance. Unsurprisingly, the Captain had raised a questioning eyebrow and refused to take any credit for the fortunate way in which the duty roster had been arranged.

 

As the two men sat down across from him, Aramis couldn’t keep a smile from his face as he eagerly asked, “Well, what’s the latest palace gossip?”

 

Porthos gave an amused shake of his head as he guffawed softly, reaching for a piece of bread as he replied, “You’ve gotten worse than an old woman.”

 

Aramis gave a mock pout as he pointed out, “That’s not fair. I wouldn’t be in such dire need of hearing the latest intrigues if I wasn’t stuck here all day and barely allowed to do anything. Do you know that Marceau forbade me from doing an inventory of the muskets today? Said I wasn’t to overexert myself or some such thing.”

 

The expression of indignation on the marksman’s face was too much for even Athos to resist as his lips turned up in a smile. “Then I shall have to thank Marceau for protecting you from yourself.”

 

Aramis sputtered at the comment as Porthos laughed once more. “And here I thought you two were my friends,” the marksman complained with his arms crossed over his chest.

 

“We are,” Porthos agreed, motioning to his friend’s empty plate. “That’s why we’re looking out for you. Now eat.”

 

Aramis didn’t even waste time arguing, knowing from previous experience that if he refused, his plate would be filled for him by the other two and he’d be expected to finish whatever he’d been given. Once he’d started to eat, Athos said, “The doctor’s been talking with Treville and believes you can return to full days of light duties as of tomorrow. If all goes well, you should be back on full duty by the end of the week.”

 

The marksman’s face lit up with glee at the idea of finally being able to relieve his boredom. “That means I’ll be able to join you on any missions the Captain assigns once d’Artagnan’s back.”

 

Porthos glanced in Athos’ direction as he concurred, “He’s right, the lad should be back in four days so maybe we can finally look forward to something more interesting than duty at the palace.”

 

The older man looked uncomfortable as he was reminded of his protégé’s imminent return. Although it was apparent that neither Porthos nor Aramis held any ill will toward the young man for his mistake, Athos was still struggling to come to terms with how he was feeling. As a result, he’d steered clear of the subject with his two friends, fearing that they would sense his reluctance to forgive the young man, and take it upon themselves to convince him of his folly. Looking up from his plate, he found both men staring at him as they waited for a response, which was thankfully cut off by the ringing dinner bell. Athos took the opportunity to have another bite, thereby further delaying the conversation until he’d chewed and swallowed.

 

The sound of the bell died away and was replaced with the sound of hoof beats, announcing the approach of a rider. With their discussion on hold, the three turned toward the gates to watch as d’Artagnan rode in. The Gascon was the last person they’d expected to see given the distance he’d had to travel. To return so quickly, the young man must have ridden hard, stopping only for as long as he needed to in order to accomplish his task before turning around again and heading for Paris. Above their heads, the Captain had appeared, and unknown to the men below, his thoughts mirrored theirs.

 

Porthos and Aramis stood as the Gascon slid from his horse, a frown appearing at once on the larger man’s face as he noted the absence of a saddle. d’Artagnan came around the front of his horse and spotted his friends, his face breaking out in a tired smile, the look slipping swiftly as he noticed Athos’ stern expression. Before any of them could speak, Treville caught their attention as he made his way down to the courtyard to examine the young man. Now that he was closer, the Captain could see how tired and worn d’Artagnan appeared, with deep shadows underneath both eyes. Narrowing his eyes, Treville noted the absence of any weapons, and his gaze swept over the young man’s horse for a moment, confirming the lack of armament there as well.

 

Returning his eyes to the Gascon, he asked, “Do you have the item you were sent to retrieve?”

 

d’Artagnan’s gaze momentarily dropped to the ground before he looked up again, searching out a spot over the Captain’s shoulder since he was unable to meet the man’s eyes. “No, Sir, the Comte refused to give it to me.”

 

Treville’s expression turned concerned as he pressed, “Why not? He understood the agreement. Did something happen?”

 

Giving a minute nod, the Gascon replied, “Yes, Sir. I was unable to convince the Comte of my identity so he sent me away.”

 

The officer’s eyes narrowed again as they snapped to the shoulder that should have been adorned with a Musketeer pauldron, but now was bare. With a steely tone, he asked, “Where is your pauldron?”

 

The young man’s eyes lowered again as he answered softly. “I lost it.”

 

“You lost it?” Treville hissed, anger beginning to take hold.

 

Swallowing thickly, d’Artagnan dipped his chin. “Yes, Sir. I was robbed and they took my pauldron,” he motioned back vaguely at his horse as he went on, “among other things.”

 

Treville’s eyes automatically flicked over to the bare-backed mount, once more taking in the absence of a saddle and any weapons. Taking a steadying breath, he questioned, “When did this happen?”

 

“On the day after I left Paris,” the Gascon replied, hoping that the Captain would at least appreciate his perseverance in completing the mission, despite having been attacked.

 

“Let me see if I have this right,” Treville said calmly. “You were within a day of the garrison when you were robbed of your pauldron, saddle and weapons.” He paused until d’Artagnan nodded to confirm the accuracy of his statement. “Then, instead of returning to replace the items you’d lost, you continued on, only to arrive without any means of proving your identity before returning empty-handed. Is that correct?”

 

d’Artagnan’s face burned with shame as he listened to Treville summarize what he’d been told. He’d known that the Captain would be understandably upset, but listening to the man’s words now made the Gascon question everything he’d done – it seemed so obvious that the correct decision would have been to return rather than forging onwards. Licking his dry lips, he answered, “Yes, Sir.”

 

Treville pressed his lips together as he glanced over his shoulder, noting that both Aramis and Porthos had moved closer in order to hear what was being said, and even Athos had risen from the table and taken a few steps forward. Turning his attention back to the Gascon he said, “See that your horse is taken care of and report to me first thing tomorrow. We’ll discuss the consequences of your actions then.”

 

“Yes, Sir,” d’Artagnan managed to mumble, holding his position until the officer had turned and walked away. Misery shone from his eyes as he sought some form of comfort in the expressions of his friends. Porthos’ and Aramis’ faces wore matching looks of compassion, but when he shifted his gaze to Athos, he found nothing but scorn and disapproval. The look startled him so that he only managed to mutter a soft good night before leading his horse towards the stable.

 

Stunned, Aramis and Porthos returned to the table. “The Captain seemed pretty upset with him,” Porthos stated sympathetically. “I hope he’s not too hard on the boy.”

 

Aramis was nodding in agreement as Athos began to speak. “Of course Treville is upset with him. He wasn’t even capable of completing a simple mission. If he can’t be trusted with a task such as this, how can he be trusted with anything of a more crucial nature?” The question was clearly rhetorical, but Aramis and Porthos traded surprised looks, not expecting the older man to be so critical of their young friend.

 

As Athos took another bite of his dinner, he wondered to himself, “How can _I_ ever trust him again?” After everything that had happened, that seemed to be the only question left which mattered.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos was hesitant about how to handle the situation. It was not that he was a stranger to bad dreams, but recent events had made him question his right to be at the young man’s side and be the one to comfort him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's continuing to follow along with this story, and for the comments and kudos - it's such a treat hearing readers' thoughts on each chapter.
> 
> Also, my gratitude to AZGirl for her beta skills.

d’Artagnan had wandered the streets aimlessly for hours before finally making his way back to his room at the garrison. The courtyard was empty by then, and he had only to deal with the somewhat cool reception he received from the guards at the gate, their demeanor a stark reminder of the fact that he had much for which to account. When he reached his room, he gratefully closed the door against the rest of the world and sagged against its sturdiness, needing its support to keep his feet. He had no idea at this point how many hours he’d been awake, but his journey back to Paris had been gruelling, peppered by short periods of rest and intermittent meals.

 

With effort, he pushed away from the door and crossed the few feet to his bed, sinking wearily to sit on the mattress so he could pull off his boots. He took the time to remove his doublet, resolutely ignoring his still bare shoulder, and dropped the garment onto the floor. Tipping to one side, he groaned as his tired body sank into the mattress, one hand coming up automatically to cradle his sore flank. He knew that he should have taken greater care with the broken rib, but time had been his enemy, giving him little opportunity to coddle his injuries.

 

Even though he knew he should be able to fall asleep without issue, his brain refused to let him rest. Regardless, he closed his eyes and breathed carefully as he relived each of the mistakes he’d made, looking for ways in which he could have changed things. He recognized that it was a futile exercise since he lacked the ability to affect the past, but he could not forgive himself for the mistakes he’d made.

 

Treville would punish him for what he’d done, but surprisingly d’Artagnan wasn’t overly concerned about what the morning might bring. It was his friends’ censure that worried him the most, especially when he recalled the look on Athos’ face. He’d known that things between them would likely be strained, but had hoped that their time apart, along with Aramis’ improved health, would be enough to bridge the gap between them, allowing them to find a way forward. Instead it seemed that Athos was even angrier with him than when he’d left, and the Gascon had no idea how to start making things right.

 

Frustrated at his inability to get his mind to settle, he let out a long exhale, ignoring the pull on his side, as he slowly rolled to his left. Done with his efforts to reposition himself, he concentrated on falling asleep, his mind returning to his previous ruminations within seconds. Why was Athos judging him so much more harshly than the others, he asked himself. Surely, if Aramis had forgiven him, then the older man should as well. It was not that d’Artagnan thought himself to be faultless, but he had hoped to have another opportunity to prove himself. Now it seemed that Athos had already decided that there could be no forgiveness, and the Gascon felt an incredible sense of loss where before his friends’ affection had lived.

 

It was a startling realization to find that he so desperately needed the older man to be a part of his life. But it was not simply Athos’ presence he craved, but his approval, his friendship – his brotherhood. It had been a difficult transition for him after his father had been killed, and d’Artagnan had felt off-kilter for many months as he adjusted to his new life in the large city. Everything he’d known had been ripped from him, and the three men’s friendship had been the tether that kept him grounded and gave him faith that he would not always feel so disconnected.

 

As time had passed, he did in fact find a sense of purpose, but more importantly he found a new home – one that had nothing to do with his previous life as a farmer in Gascony, but which he loved just as much. Best of all, his new home came with a new family in the form of the three men who’d taken him under their wing, and made it their personal mission that he succeed in his dream of becoming a Musketeer. In addition to the practical guidance they offered in the honing of his skills, they nurtured his body, mind, and soul in subtle ways that only became apparent in hindsight. To think that he was now at risk of losing his new family made his heart ache, and he folded further into himself as he stifled a raw sob of grief.

 

He lay with his eyes tightly closed for several minutes as tears leaked from beneath the closed lids and his breath came in harsh gasps. When he was done and his cheeks were wet with the intensity of his emotions, he felt utterly spent, his physical body matching the desolation in his core. Fatigue covered him like a heavy blanket and d’Artagnan allowed it to settle over him, focusing on steadying his breathing. With each measured inhale and exhale, his side protested, but he resolutely ignored it, needing the regular rhythm as he worked to calm himself.  

 

As his body quieted, his mind followed, and his chaotic thoughts stilled until one came to the forefront. He could not lose everything he’d worked so hard for, and he would do whatever was needed to gain Athos’ forgiveness. Whatever punishment Treville doled out, whatever slights came his way from others in the regiment, and whatever it took to convince Athos that he could be trusted - d’Artagnan was willing and ready for all of it. With his decision, his eyes slipped closed once more and he finally drifted into an uneasy sleep, his body no longer able to stay awake despite his anxiety over everything that had happened and was to come next. 

* * *

By the sunshine that was streaming into his room, d’Artagnan could tell that he’d slept later than he’d planned. He blinked groggily against the brightness, his eyes stinging and sore from too few hours of sleep. His body felt heavy and his mind was dull, his thoughts flowing slowly like molasses on a cold day. He knew he should get up and make his way to Treville’s office, but the summons presented the previous night did little to motivate him in the face of the crushing knowledge that Athos had apparently already forsaken him. The worst thing was that d’Artagnan could hardly blame the man, his actions as of late doing nothing to distinguish him, and continuously placing others in harm’s way.

 

Sighing deeply, his hand moved automatically to press against the sharp pain in his side, as if the added pressure could push away the ache of his still healing rib. As he exhaled, he forced himself to move, rolling slowing onto his side and pulling himself to a seated position. His eyes roamed over the discarded items of clothing he’d shed the night prior and with another sigh, he bent carefully at the waist to pick up his breeches. Once his bottom half was dressed, he stood and shuffled to find a clean shirt, pulling it awkwardly over his head without raising his right arm too high. His doublet followed and he determinedly ignored the lack of a pauldron or weapons as he moved to the door and exited.

 

The brightness of the day outside made him pause once more before making his way down to the courtyard, allowing him to cross over to the stairs that would take him to the Captain’s office. He held himself stiffly, but forced his arms to hang at his sides rather than cradling his injured flank; whatever happened next, he wasn’t looking for any preferential treatment that might stem from misplaced sympathy. He trudged wearily up the stairs and walked towards Treville’s office, slowing as the sounds of conversation reached his ears.

 

Glancing around, he sidled up to the Captain’s open window, leaning nonchalantly against the wall as he listened, Porthos deep baritone reaching him. “This really is a four-man job.”

 

Aramis spoke up next, in support of his friend’s statement. “Agreed. I know the timing isn’t ideal, but he can complete his penance once we’ve accomplished the mission.” Silence met his words and after several moments, he went on. “Surely, this takes precedence?”

 

d’Artagnan bit his lip as he heard his future being discussed, desperately wishing he could speak up in his defense while at the same time praying his presence wasn’t discovered. It was Athos’ voice that brought his attention back to the conversation that was taking place. “No, his actions need to be addressed now, and I’m confident that the three of us are sufficient to this task.”

 

Unknown to the Gascon, on the other side of the wall Treville’s eyes narrowed in surprise at hearing his lieutenant speaking against the young man. In the past, it had been Athos who’d been d’Artagnan’s staunchest supporter, and to see the turnaround was concerning to say the least. “You don’t believe that d’Artagnan should accompany you?” the Captain confirmed.

 

“No, Sir, I don’t,” Athos replied. Unseen by d’Artagnan, the older man was inhaling deeply as he readied his words, but the Gascon had already heard enough. With moisture welling in his eyes, he sidled quickly away, escaping down the stairs and into the courtyard where he found a spot from which he could watch the three men leave unobserved. Above, Athos continued on. “His earlier _cooking_ _accident_ affected the entire garrison, and the men will be waiting for you to act. A further delay, especially after a second mistake, will be viewed poorly by the men.” The word _favoritism_ danced in Athos’ head, but he refused to utter it, hoping the unspoken message would still reach the Captain.

 

Treville, for his part, looked uncomfortable but recognized the truth in his lieutenant’s words. Despite that fact, he’d been willing to delay the young man’s punishment long enough for this mission to be completed. He felt certain that it required four men, but Aramis was not yet fully recovered and by rights should not have been deployed with the others so soon. The idea of sending any fewer made his gut twist uneasily. The other option was to send another four-man team in place of the Inseparables, but again his intuition flared, reminding him that these were his four best and offered the greatest chance of success. Withholding the sigh that threatened, the Captain spoke. “Alright. Take Féret with you.”

 

Porthos and Aramis traded a quick glance, which was followed swiftly by loaded looks between all three of the Inseparables, but Treville’s hard expression was ultimately the one that won out as Athos gave the commanding officer a quick dip of his head before leading the way out. From the way that the men’s mouths thinned tightly, it was clear that they all had something they wanted to say, and the Captain couldn’t help but admire their willpower in remaining silent as they filed out.

 

When the door to Treville’s office was firmly closed behind them, Aramis opened his mouth to speak but was stopped by Porthos’ quick head shake, the man pointing to the open window at their backs. With a stifled sigh of frustration, Aramis followed the other two downstairs and across the courtyard, finally catching Athos’ arm once they’d entered the stable. “Have you gone mad?” he hissed angrily. “I know that d’Artagnan’s made some mistakes recently, but to actually speak against him to the Captain…” The marksman trailed off, obviously too upset to speak coherently as he threw his arms into the air and paced away from his friends for a moment.

 

Porthos looked compassionately at his exasperated friend, understanding how the man was feeling, but recognizing that dealing with Athos would require a subtler approach. Softly clearing his throat, he said, “Athos, I know you’re unhappy with what’s happened.” Resolutely, he ignored the older man’s snort at his choice of words and forged on. “But you can’t honestly tell me that you feel good about this decision. You know what the boy’s like.”

 

Athos closed his eyes for a moment at Porthos’ words, knowing exactly to what the larger man was referring. It would be bad enough that d’Artagnan would be punished by Treville, but it would be expected, and the young man would have no issues accepting whatever the Captain doled out. The harsher punishment would be to leave the young man behind, effectively cutting him off from his friends’ support and the assurance that once his penance was complete, he’d still have a place to return to.

 

It was a cruel thing to do to a man who craved belonging above all else. It was what d’Artagnan had lost when his father had been murdered, and the thing that had given him nightmares after Athos had drunkenly shot him in the side in order to mislead Milady.

 

_d’Artagnan’s inhales came quickly, almost more like gasps as though he couldn’t catch his breath. At the same time, his eyes rolled beneath closed lids, and the occasional moan had now begun to interrupt the room’s silence. Athos was hesitant about how to handle the situation. It was not that he was a stranger to bad dreams, but recent events had made him question his right to be at the young man’s side and be the one to comfort him._

_The young man whimpered and the sound clawed at Athos’ heart. Without any additional thought, his hand moved of its own volition to settle on the Gascon’s chest, as he softly coaxed the sleeping man to wakefulness. “d’Artagnan, wake up. It’s only a bad dream.”_

_“It’s only a bad dream,” the words repeated in Athos’ head, giving it a minute shake. What had happened had been so much more than a bad dream, and Athos still recalled the sensation of the breath being torn from his body as his friends and Treville had held the Gascon’s limp form on the cold cobblestones, attempting to get some sign of life from him. Knowing the young man was alive, and then seeing him later at the garrison, had helped to alleviate some of his concern, but he’d still felt as though he’d been stabbed in the chest as he’d nonchalantly commented on the realism of his shot._

_That his friends had seemed to agree with him had been comforting, but Athos was having a hard time convincing himself of his own words. There had been no forethought or skill involved in the incident, and it was pure, dumb luck that d’Artagnan hadn’t been fatally injured. The truth of the matter was that he’d consumed far more wine than he should have in order to go through with the charade. It was a fact that he kept to himself, certain that his friends would condemn him if they knew._

_It was this guilt that gnawed at his insides and made him hesitate when before he would have fallen into the role of older brother easily and without thought. He no longer felt worthy of the young man’s friendship, and worried that his presence at the Gascon’s side would make things worse instead of better. Beneath his hand, d’Artagnan’s chest heaved with a large inhale, pulling Athos’ attention back to his charge. Once more his hand seemed to move of its own accord, this time to squeeze the young man’s shoulder as his eyelids fluttered open._

_“d’Artagnan, all is well. You’re safe now,” Athos murmured as he shifted his grip to cup the nape of the Gascon’s neck._

_The Gascon looked up at him fuzzily, obviously still fighting the remnants of the dream he’d had as he blinked several times. Seconds later, he turned his head away and Athos found himself suddenly bereft, the action reinforcing his own feelings of shame at his earlier actions. With a shaky breath, he released his hold and withdrew his hand, only to have it caught by d’Artagnan who’d turned to look at him as soon as he’d discerned the older man’s movement._

_“Athos, I’m glad you’re here,” the Gascon said, his voice hoarse from disuse. “The others?” His eyes scanned the room with a small degree of ill-concealed panic as he asked._

_Surprised by the reaction, the older man replied, “Fetching wine and food from the kitchen; they’ll be back shortly.”_

_The answer seemed to satisfy the young man as he nodded, his frame relaxing back into the mattress. Licking dry lips, Athos commented, “You seemed to be having a nightmare.” He paused, waiting for a response, but d’Artagnan merely shifted his gaze to the wall across the room. “Would you like to tell me about it?” Athos prayed that his tone had given away nothing of his anxiousness at asking the question, feeling his trepidation rising at the anticipated answer._

_The Gascon kept his eyes locked firmly on the wall as he worried his lower lip in thought. The silence between them stretched until Athos felt the need to break it, but as he drew breath to speak, d’Artagnan said, “I dreamt I’d lost you – all of you.”_

_The voice was so low as to be almost indistinguishable, but the older man caught the strange comment which made his brow furrow in confusion. “What do you mean – lost us?”_

_d’Artagnan was still staring at the wall, and now he let his head drop to the side, shifting his gaze even further away from his mentor as he answered. “In my dreams, you died.”_

_Athos swallowed thickly at the note of despair in his friend’s voice, even as the Gascon was doing the same as he attempted to dislodge the large lump that seemed to have appeared in his throat. “Sometimes Aramis or Porthos die, too, but you…” d’Artagnan trailed off, remaining silent for several moments before clearing his throat. “You always die. Sometimes it’s at Milady’s hand, sometimes it’s one of the men in the alley.” He stopped again, giving his head a minor shake before turning his sorrowful eyes on Athos. “Each time, I’m too late to stop it from happening.”_

_The young man’s admission was a revelation for Athos who’d been concerned that d’Artagnan’s dreams were about being killed himself. Instead, the Gascon had been carrying his own misplaced guilt, fearing that he’d caused the deaths of his friends. He was about to say so when d’Artagnan spoke again. “I never told you, even though I’m sure you knew anyway,” his head was now shaking again as a wistful smile appeared on his face. “You saved me – all of you. I had no one after my father died, but you helped me find my way. Here, with all of you, this is my new home and I can’t bear the thought of losing it because of a mistake.”_

 

Athos had been stunned to hear that what disturbed his friend’s sleep was not the trauma of being shot by a friend, or the pain of his healing wound, but the fear of losing his new family. It had taken a conversation with Aramis and Porthos later, once d’Artagnan was once again asleep, for him to understand exactly what the Gascon’s dreams represented. From that day forward, he and the others had been mindful of the young man’s need to belong, and had worked hard to ensure d’Artagnan never had a reason to question his place among them.

 

It was this acceptance that Athos was now threatening, and he started at the realization of how significant the consequences of his actions might be. He refocused on Porthos’ face, the larger man still waiting patiently for a response. A few feet away, Aramis had also stilled and was waiting with his hands on his hips. With a quick downward glance, Athos replied. “There’s nothing to be done about it now. d’Artagnan will simply need to manage until we return and we can speak with him about it then.”

 

Athos could see how both men’s expressions fell, and he turned away from them before they could argue further. Hefting his horse’s saddle from its place, he moved to begin preparing his horse. Surely, d’Artagnan would be fine without them for a week.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moments later, the struggle was over. Aramis watched hopelessly as the older man lost his fight with gravity and his head disappeared from view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the great reactions to the last chapter, and to AZGirl for helping smooth out some of the details in this next chapter. Enjoy!

From his secluded spot on the edge of the courtyard, d’Artagnan had watched his friends descend the stairs and walk towards the stable. Despite their neutral expressions, he sensed that Porthos and Aramis had something to say to Athos as they followed behind him. Not a single one of them looked around for him, and the Gascon felt another pang of disappointment that they hadn’t at least tried to seek him out.

 

Although he knew that the Captain was waiting for him, he remained hidden until he saw his friends leave, accompanied by Féret. The fourth man’s presence was disconcerting, and d’Artagnan couldn’t help but wonder if he’d just seen his replacement. It took him several minutes after the men’s departure to compose himself enough to present himself to Treville, the strong emotions churning in his belly making him feel somewhat nauseous.

 

When he felt ready, he drew himself up and made his way to the Captain’s door, rapping his knuckles against the wood and entering when he heard Treville’s voice give him permission to do so. The officer was leaning back in his chair, and he watched carefully as the young man entered and stood at attention in front of him. At a casual glance, the Gascon seemed fine – perhaps somewhat more sombre than normal, but that was to be expected given the nature of their upcoming conversation. A closer look revealed the bruising beneath the young man’s eyes, and the way in which he held his right arm closely tucked to his side, suggesting the presence of a hidden injury.

 

Treville took note of d’Artagnan’s condition and automatically catalogued each concerning indicator, taking his condition into consideration before deciding on the Musketeer’s punishment. His silent examination continued for well over a minute, and the officer could see the small cracks beginning in the young man’s calm façade. Reaching a conclusion, he delivered his decision. “d’Artagnan, I want to begin by acknowledging that the situations you’ve found yourself in recently had elements that were outside of your control, and I took this into consideration when deciding your punishment.”

 

Treville paused to see if the Gascon had anything to add, but the young man kept his gaze firmly set on the back wall. “Despite that, your decision to proceed after being robbed of your pauldron and weapons was the wrong one, and resulted in your failure to complete your mission. That failure is shared by your brothers since it now falls to one of them to complete this task in your place.” d’Artagnan’s face remained impassive as he waited for the officer to go on. “Furthermore, your actions in the kitchen, although well-meaning, had far-reaching consequences to this regiment that cannot be overlooked. Have you anything to say in your defense?”

 

Treville waited silently, not having received any indication from the Gascon that he’d been affected by the Spindleberries placed in his water, nor that these had contributed to the loss of his items. He hoped that d’Artagnan would tell him if he’d been ill, allowing him to lighten his punishment. When it became clear that the young man had nothing to say, the Captain prompted him. “Is there anything you want to tell me? Anything that may have contributed to the situation – either of them – that you found yourself in?” He paused again, silently encouraging the young man to speak, but received only a curt headshake in reply.

 

Stifling the urge to sigh, Treville had no choice but to announce his decision. “Very well then. For the next week, you are confined to the garrison. Before morning muster, you will assist in the stables, mucking out the stalls, repairing the tack, and ensuring the horses are in good condition. You will spend your regular duty hours with Aubert, who will ensure that you are better prepared for your next encounter with the enemy. When you are dismissed by Aubert, you will report to the kitchen where Serge will provide direction on the proper use of ingredients as you assist him with the evening meal.”

 

d’Artagnan gave a stiff nod of acknowledgement, clearly waiting to be dismissed, but the Captain was not yet satisfied as he asked, “Have you anything more to say?”

 

“No, Sir,” the Gascon replied, speaking for the first time since he’d arrived.

 

With nothing forthcoming from the young man, there was nothing more that Treville could do. With a dip of his chin and a wave of his hand, he said, “Dismissed.” The young man moved swiftly as he exited and Treville watched the retreating back as he wondered at the fact that d’Artagnan hadn’t even asked about the absence of the others. With a mental shrug, he dismissed the thought and turned his attention to the seemingly never-ending pile of paperwork that littered his desk.

* * *

The days had passed quickly for the four men, and although Féret was not usually deployed with them, he seemed to adjust fairly easily to the others’ quirks, lending a hand where needed and staying out of the way when he wasn’t. It was a good thing the man had been flexible, Aramis reflected, as he observed the tension in Athos’ back while the older man rode ahead of him with Porthos. Féret had seemed to intuitively know to give Athos a wide berth, and had spent most of his time with the other two men.

 

Although they hadn’t worked this closely together in the past, all four were familiar with one another, and it helped that Féret had a reputation as a solid and hardworking soldier, who was well-liked by his peers. With their new addition, the men had successfully completed their mission and were now on the latter part of their journey, which had them a scant day’s ride from Paris. Their journey would not be completed that day, Aramis mused, as he squinted upwards at the sun’s position, but he was confident that they would be sleeping in their own beds by the following night.

 

Other than the tension that stretched between them like overly taut bowstrings, their assignment had been a relatively simple one and Aramis again wondered at Treville’s trepidation at sending a three-man team. From their experience so far, the officer’s concern was misplaced, and the marksman was certain the others would agree with his assessment. The most excitement they’d dealt with had been Féret’s temporarily lame horse, which had required them to rest for an extra day and had delayed their return home.

 

With a soft sigh of boredom at the empty land around them, he reached for his water skin and took a long drink, relishing the sensation of the cool liquid as it slipped over his tongue and down his throat. At this point, their biggest concern was trying not to overheat as the sun’s rays beat down on them while they crossed the relatively barren and rocky stretch of land.

 

Moments later, Aramis’ eyes narrowed as he focused on a small speck far to their left. From this distance, it was hard to identify what his keen eyesight had discerned, and he continued to glance at it every few seconds as the dot grew and took form. Féret was the first to notice his frequent gazes to the side, and after seeing nothing of interest, he asked, “What is it, Aramis?”

 

The marksman gave a small shake of his head, his eyes firmly locked on the shape as it grew, finally able to reply, “Riders, coming our way.” The words were spoken loudly enough to reach Athos’ and Porthos’ ears and the men drew up on their reins and stopped, the two men behind them following suit.

 

The older man looked to Aramis as he queried, “Any way to tell who they are?”

 

Aramis continued to stare off into the distance for several moments more before replying. “No way to tell yet, but they seem to be in quite the rush.”

 

The speed of the approaching riders was enough to put the Musketeers on their guard, and Athos turned his horse forward once more and spurred it into motion, the others following his lead as he galloped towards Paris. As they fairly flew across the ground, desperately needing to reach the better cover of the treeline that lay several kilometres ahead, Aramis continued to throw glances over his shoulder to track the progress of the other riders. Minutes passed with only the sound of heavy breathing and pounding hoof beats, until the marksman announced with certainty, “They’ve turned to follow us.”

 

Looking ahead, all four men were gauging the distance that separated them from the perceived safety of the trees, but it was Porthos who voiced what they were all thinking as he said, “We’re not gonna make it.”

 

In that moment, Athos began to tighten the slack on his horse’s reigns, bringing the panting beast to a shuddering halt. It would be better to face their pursuers head on than with their backs turned to the danger, so the Musketeers automatically arranged themselves in a line, facing the approaching men. Beneath them, their horses gave the occasional whiny as they shifted from side to side, unhappy with the abrupt transition from full run to complete stop. In contrast to the anxious beasts, the four men waited motionlessly, their muscles tense as they gripped their pistols in preparation of the coming skirmish.

 

As expected, it was Aramis who fired the first shot as soon as he was certain it would reach his intended victim. By then it was obvious that the approaching men were not friendly, their pistols already raised as well in anticipation of firing at the Musketeers. It was just good fortune that the opposing group had no one nearly as skilled as Aramis on their side, and had to hold their shots until the gap between them closed further.

 

It took only a few seconds longer before Porthos felt confident enough to loose his shot as well, and he was rewarded by a cry of pain, even though the wounded man managed to stay on his horse. The next few moments were filled with noise and smoke as both sides fired their weapons, and Aramis felt the anxiety rising in his chest as he scanned the area to evaluate the results of their first volley. A glance to both sides confirmed that he and his brothers still lived, despite the pained look on Féret’s face as he tightly gripped his upper arm.

 

Swinging his eyes forward, the marksman spotted three unmoving men splayed out on the ground, while two others lay on the sparse grass, moaning and shifting with the pain of their wounds. This left three of the enemy force still on their horses moving forward to attack. Aramis’ face split in a satisfied grin with the knowledge that all of their shots, including the one from his second pistol, had found their marks. Shoving the now empty weapons back into their holsters, he drew his sword, shifting his position slightly to the side to protect their wounded comrade. In his periphery, he noted that Athos and Porthos had done the same, seconds before he felt the strength of the strike that hit his blade.

 

His opponent was a large man who bore an uncanny resemblance to Porthos. Aramis dismissed the thought from his mind as he tightened his grip on his sword, shifting position to counter the man’s next blow. Each strike reverberated through the steel of his blade, and the marksman knew he wouldn’t be able to last long against his attacker’s strength. His prediction proved true seconds later as he was knocked from his horse with his opponent’s next blow, his attacker swiftly following him to the ground.

 

The marksman ignored the immediate ache in his back, which had borne the brunt of his weight, as he hurried to right himself and gain his feet. He was just in time as he parried another strike, followed quickly by a second and third, which left him backpedaling in an attempt to place some distance between himself and the other man. The energy needed to combat the man’s hard blows was rapidly draining his strength and had left Aramis with little opportunity to gain any advantage through his superior skill.

 

Taking another step backwards, he reached for his main gauche, his fingers just closing around the blade’s handle as his foe’s sword swung towards his neck. Aramis managed to bring his right arm up in time to stave off the strike, but was unable to stop the hit that followed, delivered by the other man’s left hand. The blow connected solidly with the side of Aramis’ head and had his legs folding beneath him almost at once. Dazed, and bewildered to find himself on the ground, he looked up into the gleaming eyes of the enemy, the man grinning while still holding onto the pistol which had delivered the painful strike.

 

Aramis knew he had only moments left to live as the giant took a step forward to finish him. The marksman’s right hand was empty though, having lost his grip on his sword when he’d fallen, and he now had nothing with which to defend himself. Above, the other man lifted his sword in preparation to take the Musketeer’s life. As Aramis watched the blade’s upswing, he registered the feeling of something hard against his left palm, his mind finally recognizing that he wasn’t unarmed after all. Relying on instinct, he brought his left arm up from the ground, releasing the blade mid-motion so that it embedded itself in his attacker’s neck.

 

From his position on the ground, he watched as the dying man’s expression turned from glee to confusion, and then finally pain, his limbs losing their strength as his life literally poured out from the fatal wound. The man wobbled for several seconds before his weapons clattered to the ground, and a moment later, he followed, falling loose-limbed to the rocky earth. Aramis had only a moment to roll to the side and out of the way of the dying form, narrowly missing getting stuck beneath the still body. He sat there for several long seconds as he waited for the world to stop titling, staring at the man who’d almost taken his life.

 

Squeezing his eyes closed, he slowed his breaths as he tried to push away the throbbing in his skull. He had no idea how long he stayed that way until an errant thought crossed his jumbled mind, reminding him that he didn’t even know if they were safe. Forcing his eyes to open, and then to focus, he blearily looked around in search of his friends. The sight that greeted him sent adrenaline once more surging through his veins, infusing his muscles with enough strength to stand.

 

Athos was still upright, battling with one of the men who’d attacked them, and from the look of the pair, Aramis was certain the older man was about to bring their contest to an end. Several feet away, another of their foes lay on the ground, and the marksman could only assume the man had been defeated by Porthos, since they’d earlier been evenly matched. Scanning further, he spotted Porthos on the other side of their impromptu battleground with Féret bent over him. Aramis squinted in an attempt to discern what was happening, but his vision refused to clear sufficiently for him to make out any of the finer details.

 

With the threat all but eliminated, the marksman set his course towards Porthos and Féret, needing to check on the condition of both men. His steps were stilted and uncertain as the pulsing in his brain made it difficult to ascertain the distance between his feet and the ground. Resolutely, he pushed onwards, carefully glancing to the side to confirm that Athos had in fact defeated his opponent. When asked later, Aramis would describe time as slowing to a crawl, explaining that although he knew exactly what was about to happen, his body refused to move quickly enough to prevent it. Despite that, he’d still thrown himself forward into a stumbling run, cursing the dizziness that made the ground buck and sway alarmingly beneath his feet.

 

As the two bodies collided, the marksman’s heart leapt into his throat, watching as both men precariously fought for balance on the cliff’s edge. Athos’ attacker had only one foot firmly placed on the ground, but he’d overbalanced when he’d crashed into the Musketeer and was now grappling to secure his hold on Athos’ doublet to stop himself from going over the edge. The former Comte was battling just as fiercely to pry his opponent’s fingers free, even as he leaned away from open space in a bid to regain a secure position.

 

Unable to loosen the man’s hold, Athos changed his strategy and aimed a strong blow at the man’s face, stunning him long enough to break the grip that threatened to pull him over. A cry of surprise sprang forth from his attacker’s lips, stopping abruptly as the man landed on his midsection on the edge of the cliff, hands scrabbling immediately for purchase. It was a reflection of Athos’ poor luck that day that the desperate man’s hands caught his leg, finally managing to unbalance him and bringing him to the rocky ground with a thud and a grunt of pain.

 

The shock of his unexpected fall emptied the air from Athos’ chest, and it took several moments for his lungs to remember how to breathe again. Those precious moments cost him as his attacker’s vicelike grip on his leg pulled him closer to the cliff’s edge until his lower body dangled dangerously over nothing but air. Athos was now kicking his legs in a last, desperate attempt to free himself from the flailing man’s grip, but each movement was also pulling more of his body down the wrong side of the cliff. A final hefty jerk of his leg had the limb coming free, but the damage had already been done, and Athos found himself hopelessly scrabbling at the ground in search of something that would halt his backwards descent.

 

The thin scrub that dotted the rocky ground offered little purchase, and Athos didn’t even notice as his fingernails ripped and his hands bled as the sharp edges cut into his flesh. His sole focus was on preventing his fall; he didn’t even hear Aramis’ strangled shout as the man called his name. Moments later, the struggle was over. Aramis watched hopelessly as the older man lost his fight with gravity and his head disappeared from view.

 

Still several feet away, the pounding of the marksman’s head escalated, dropping him to his knees. As he succumbed to his body’s weakness, he felt swamped by a surge of overwhelming guilt at not having reached his friend in time. He remained that way for only a second as blackness encroached on his vision, and his unconscious body slipped the remainder of the way to the hard ground.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As his vision began to turn dark, he felt his heart leap into his chest as he looked into the pale, lax face of the man beside him – Athos!

The days had passed slowly for d’Artagnan, despite the fact that they began before dawn and ended well into the night. Each hour of every day was filled with work or training, which should have left him exhausted and sleeping dreamlessly, but instead the opposite was true, and as a result, the Gascon was functioning on fewer than four hours’ sleep each night. d’Artagnan was fearful of what might happen if Treville noticed his worn state, so he made certain that his tasks always kept him away from the officer’s watchful gaze, finding a reason to be elsewhere whenever the man was about.

 

He was certain that the Captain still had some idea of his condition, having sources of information other than observation on which to rely. But, the young man was just as certain that he’d been able to adequately hide the extent of his weariness from those around him, meaning that the reports going to Treville would understate how poorly he was faring. In d’Artagnan’s mind, he needed only to last the week at which point he would confront Athos and offer him an apology before resigning his commission. Befuddled by too little rest and too much time to think, the plan he’d devised was the only way he could redeem himself, and ensure the regiment didn’t suffer any additional embarrassment as a result of his mistakes.

 

Despite his assumptions regarding Treville’s knowledge of his current state, the Captain was painfully aware of the Gascon’s deterioration over the course of the past week. Not that d’Artagnan had looked overly well upon his return - and the Captain still berated himself for not having pointedly asked about injuries – but the day of the Inseparables’ departure seemed to mark the beginning of a new downward trend. Incredibly, the young man’s state had not affected how he’d performed any of his duties, leaving the officer with no reason to address the young man other than his own blossoming misgivings that something was terribly wrong. As a result, Treville decided to offer d’Artagnan a reprieve on the day following the completion of his punishment, which also happened to be the day when the Inseparables were officially late. Despite that, it was too early for concern, their missions often requiring an additional day or two.

 

“d’Artagnan,” Treville called down to the young man from the balcony outside his office. The Gascon was sitting at their foursome’s usual table, likely waiting for the others to arrive. With a wave of his hand, the officer indicated his desire to speak with the young man, and upon receiving a nod of acknowledgement, he leaned back from the railing to wait for the Gascon to join him.

 

“Sir,” d’Artagnan presented himself, his expression somewhat surprised at the fact that they would be speaking outside, having fully expected to receive another reprimand from the officer about something he’d done.

 

“I don’t believe there’s any reason for alarm, but I wanted to let you know that Athos and the others are slightly overdue,” the Captain began. “Since you are no longer confined to the garrison, I’d like you to ride out to meet them and accompany them back.” The immediate flash of gratitude on the Gascon’s face didn’t last long, but was an encouraging sign and Treville knew he’d done the right thing.

 

Looking far lighter than he had in days, d’Artagnan replied, “Yes, Sir.”

 

“Good. You know which road they’re on?” Treville asked, confident that the Gascon had ferreted out the details of the others’ mission earlier in the week. A dip of the young man’s chin confirmed the Captain’s suspicions. “Good,” he repeated. “Take enough supplies for an overnight stay. I can’t imagine they’ll be needed, but better to be safe than sorry.” Receiving a nod of dismissal, Treville watched the Gascon depart, hoping that being reunited with his friends would bring the young man out of his fugue. 

* * *

d’Artagnan departed the garrison with a mix of emotions. A part of him was grateful to finally be allowed beyond the walls that he’d been forced to stay within for the last seven days, and being back on his horse soothed his soul in a way that nothing else could. Another part of him worried about his coming conversation with Athos, still determined to offer the man an explanation accompanied by a heartfelt apology, along with news of his decision to leave the Musketeers’ ranks.

 

While he was fairly certain that his mentor would agree with his choice, a small part of him warned that the man would once more be upset with him, even though d’Artagnan couldn’t honestly say where that anger might come from. Over the last few weeks, the former Comte had made his feelings abundantly clear, and the Gascon felt he was only acting on Athos’ unspoken request for him to leave. He may have doubted his mentor’s feelings at some point, still clinging to the hope that whatever had come between them could be resolved, but those hopes had been utterly and completely dashed when he’d overheard the older man’s words outside Treville’s office.

 

Sighing, the Gascon wiped a hand across his sweaty brow, noting the sun’s position above him. He’d been riding for several hours now and was beginning to feel the first undercurrents of anxiety at not having yet crossed paths with the others. The Captain’s demeanor had been calm and relaxed, and d’Artagnan had taken his cue from him, believing that the officer would have sent more than one man if there’d been any cause for concern. He briefly considered that the men might have taken a different road, but dismissed the idea almost at once, recalling the area and confirming that this was the most direct route.

 

As morning turned into midday, and eventually into afternoon, d’Artagnan kept a steady pace, encouraging his horse to canter or gallop for short stretches, followed by periods of walking so the animal wouldn’t tire too quickly. The longer he rode, the greater his anxiety grew at speaking with his friends for the first time in several weeks.

 

When he spotted horses ahead in the distance, his heart leapt, and he unconsciously urged his mount to quicken its pace. As he neared, his eyes narrowed at seeing several riderless horses scattered about, followed shortly by the sight of men lying motionless on the ground. Feeling the first stirrings of fear, he pulled his pistol as he slowed his horse to a walk, moving forward cautiously as he scanned each body he passed for signs of the distinctive Musketeer pauldron.

 

The sound of clashing steel ahead drew his attention and he moved into what he now knew to be the main battleground for whatever had taken place. Far to his right, he could see two men on the ground, one apparently tending the other. To his left was the source of the sound he’d heard and he recognized Athos’ distinctive moves as he battled a sole opponent. A look back to his right identified a fourth man, this one stumbling and weaving unsteadily as he moved – the Gascon was still too far away to identify him, but he’d clearly been hurt. Deciding that Athos seemed to be holding his own, he turned his horse towards the injured man who was already making his way to the other two.

 

Suddenly, the wounded man’s gait and direction changed, and d’Artagnan’s gaze shifted sharply to see what had drawn the man’s attention. Athos and his opponent were now grappling in an odd dance, and it took d’Artagnan several seconds to realize that they stood at the edge of a cliff. As he watched, one of the men fell and for a moment, the Gascon couldn’t breathe with the thought that his mentor had fallen. But as he kicked his horse into motion, he recognized that Athos still stood at the edge of the precipice, doing his best to regain both his balance and footing.

 

Sparing a glance towards the injured man, d’Artagnan was able to finally recognize Aramis’ pinched features, and despite the marksman’s increased speed, there was no way he would reach their friend in time. Forcefully, the Gascon dug his heels into his mount’s side, dropping his pistol and jumping from the animal’s back just as Athos’ head disappeared from view over the side of the cliff. d’Artagnan didn’t hesitate as he threw himself forward onto the ground, an arm reaching over immediately in search of his mentor.

 

A moment later, a hand grasped his arm and he shakily raised his head and looked over the edge to find himself face to face with Athos’ strained expression. Wasting no time, the Gascon brought his other arm around, gripping his mentor’s other hand even as the older man clung to a root that grew out of the side of the cliff face. He’d caught Athos just in time as the straggly bit of brush pulled free from the rocks, unable to bear the weight it had been forced to hold. Unprepared for the loss of the anchoring plant, Athos’ body dropped and swung sideways, pulling his left arm from d’Artagnan’s right hand.

 

d’Artagnan’s eyes closed for a moment as he waited for Athos’ motion to subside, channeling all his strength into the tenuous hold that remained, knowing he was all that stood between his mentor and death. Opening his eyes, he said, “Give me your other hand.” The older man wanted to comply, but he doubted that either of them had enough strength to get him back to the safety of the ground above.

 

“Athos, please,” the young man gasped, the muscles and ligaments in his shoulder pulling unbearably. Switching tactics, he said, “You need to climb.”

 

Athos heard the deep desperation in the Gascon’s voice, but it covered an unwavering determination to hold on and pull him up, and despite the young man’s plea, he knew he could never accomplish what had been asked of him. His body felt drained, emotionally and physically, and he had no footholds to use to push himself upwards.

 

No, there would be no salvation for him this day, and the best he could do was to ensure his death didn’t carry too high a price. He’d already lost one brother; the thought of losing another had made him turn away from the Gascon. The idea that his next loss could come at his own hand sickened him, and with an effort of will, he tugged at his hand, trying to release it from d’Artagnan’s iron grip.

 

“What,” the Gascon panted breathlessly, “what are you doing?” He paused to draw another breath. “Stop, Athos, you’ll fall.” As soon as the words left his mouth, realization dropped onto him like a stone – his friend would prefer to fall rather than pulling both of them to their deaths.

 

“No!” d’Artagnan cried, his fingers closing even more firmly around Athos’ hand and wrist, the grip leaving bruises in its wake. “I won’t let you,” he gasped.

 

And then it began. It was a simple law of gravity; Athos was heavier than d’Artagnan and the latter man had no leverage, no ability to prevent himself from being pulled forward. Slowly, inexorably, inch by miniscule inch, the Gascon moved closer to the edge of the precipice, his heart pounding and his eyes locked on to Athos’.

 

The older man’s expression was twisted into one of misery, recognizing that the Gascon above him had no intention of releasing his hold. With effort, he shifted, making his body sway and placing more pressure on the grip that held him to the side of the cliff. The movement pulled dangerously at d’Artagnan’s shoulder and he couldn’t stifle a gasp of pain, closing his eyes for only a moment before reopening them to wheeze, “Stop.”

 

Athos was about to formulate a reply – something that would have the young man seeing reason and understand that there was no need for them both to die. He was ready to let go. His life had been long by some standards, and rich by others, filled with the love of his brothers and his service to the Crown. He had regrets, of course, but what man did not? Thankfully, they would all be erased from his memory with his final breaths when peace could finally replace torment.

 

Suddenly, there was no time left for discussion as gravity asserted its hold and the speed of d’Artagnan’s movement increased. One second Athos was looking up at the Gascon and the next had them falling, spinning through space, the young man’s hand still tightly clenched around his own. When they impacted, Athos had a last, brief moment of lucid thought as he wondered whether that grip had survived the fall. 

* * *

_It was a warm day and the Captain’s window was open, through which the voices of the men inside could be heard. d’Artagnan paused as he approached, Treville’s question stopping him in his tracks. “Why don’t you want d’Artagnan to accompany you?” The Gascon waited with baited breath for the answer, shocked to even hear such a question. The wait seemed interminable and he clenched his hands into fists to stop the trembling he felt starting there, forcing himself to be patient even though he wanted nothing more than to burst through the door to demand an answer._

_Finally, the reply came and he heard Athos’ distinctive voice say, “It’s a matter of trust.”_

_Trust. Such a simple word, yet the meaning behind it was enormous. When it was present, there was nothing that couldn’t be accomplished. Its presence signalled loyalty, security, friendship. Without it, there was nothing, and it seemed that Athos no longer trusted him enough for them to be deployed together._

_He could hear a short intake of air, signalling the surprised reaction of one of the room’s occupants. Aramis was the next to speak as he tried to reason with Athos and change the man’s mind. “Athos, surely things are not as bad as this.”_

_Porthos was quick to add, “He’s right, Athos. There’s been some unfortunate incidents, but this…” He trailed off then, and d’Artagnan couldn’t help but move closer, desperate to hear the larger man’s thoughts. Seconds later the sentence was finished. “This seems a bit extreme.”_

_The Gascon couldn’t stand to listen any longer and he withdrew silently, carefully placing his feet so that no sound of his presence remained. As soon as he was out of earshot, he sped up his steps as he made his way down to the courtyard and exited through the garrison gates. He could not bear to face his friends now. “Ha!” a voice in his head shouted. “Not your friends.” No, he thought to himself, Athos was right. There had been too many errors on his part; too many instances where his actions had led to someone else’s injury and he could not blame his mentor for no longer trusting his ability to keep anyone safe._

_Missions were hazardous enough as it was, and the last thing any of them needed was to be distracted, focusing on what d’Artagnan was doing rather than remaining alert to their surroundings. That understanding didn’t make Athos’ words hurt any less, however, and he could not stay to hear confirmation that he would not be joining them; could not stay and watch them leave without him. With moisture fogging his vision, he strode brokenly down the street, unaware and uncaring about where he ended up._

 

d’Artagnan startled awake with a gasp, his head rising from the ground only a couple of inches before agony engulfed his body and he collapsed back to the ground. He breathed in a series of harsh, wheezing pants, and he could feel the wrongness in his side with each inhale and exhale. Closing his eyes against the tears that threatened, he lay as still as he could for several minutes, waiting for the tide of pain to abate. When he could breathe without crying, he opened his eyes once more.

 

He body was uncomfortably twisted, and he lay partially on his back and side, offering him a view of a blue, cloudless sky. He blinked in confusion at the sight, still trying to shake off the remnants of his dream while marvelling at the fact that he’d fallen asleep outside. Deciding that he needed to find a more comfortable position, he began to move his legs, intending to lay fully on his back. His left leg responded weakly, but his right sent a spike of fire up through his hip and had him trying to curl inwards against the excruciating pain.

 

The resulting jerk of attempted motion had the throbbing in his side flaring once more, and he had no choice but to lay limply as he prayed for the intense agony to ease. When it had subsided enough that he could think somewhat clearly, he came to the realization that he’d somehow been hurt. With that knowledge, he began to carefully check for other injuries by testing the various parts of his body in turn. As he’d learned earlier, his left leg seemed fine, but even the act of wiggling the toes of his right foot set his leg’s nerve-endings alight.

 

Further up, his right side competed for attention with his leg, while his arm felt numb and d’Artagnan thought he might be lying on top of it. It was when he went to move his left hand that he realized it was attached to something behind him, and he attempted unsuccessfully to turn his head enough to see what it was, managing only to awake an ache in his left shoulder. Determined to have an answer, he took three deeper breaths as he readied himself for the pain that movement would bring.

 

Without hesitating, he forced his body to roll to the left, finally accomplishing the position on his back that he’d desired earlier. As he turned, he couldn’t prevent the scream of pain that left his lips, as sparks flared in his vision. Feeling the blackness encroaching, he rolled his head further to the side, determined to complete his objective before he passed out. As his vision began to turn dark, he felt his heart leap into his chest as he looked into the pale, lax face of the man beside him – Athos!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who'd hoped to read more about d'Artagnan's week of punishment, you'll be thrilled to know that AZGirl has written an amazing story that fills in that gap. Her fic, Punishing Mistakes, will be posted tomorrow, while my story takes a 2-day break, returning with a new chapter on Sunday. I hope you'll check out her story as she's once again done a fantastic job of filling in some of the details that I didn't address.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So tell me, d’Artagnan,” he began, an undercurrent of anger now coloring his words, “what the hell were you thinking by not letting go?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the great reactions to the last chapter, and for being patient while real life interfered with my fanfic addiction and prevented me from posting for a couple of days. My gratitude also to AZGirl for all of her help with this story.

Porthos was beside himself with worry, and frustrated beyond description at his inability to do anything more other than watch over Aramis while they waited for help to arrive. Before he’d left, Féret had somehow managed to drag Aramis closer, and had positioned them both in the meagre shade of a small copse of trees, which consisted of nothing more than a collection of overgrown bushes. Regardless, Porthos was grateful for the perceived protection of the space, uncertain exactly how long it would take for aid to arrive.

 

Féret’s wound had turned out to be the least serious, and as a result, he was the only one of their party capable of riding. Porthos looked down at his bloodied leg in disgust, his belt cinched tightly near the top of his thigh to slow the bleeding that now impeded his movements. It had been a lucky strike on the part of his foe, and he admitted that Féret had saved him from a worse fate when he’d moved behind the enemy soldier and run him through with his sword. The Musketeer had then swiftly assessed the severity of the wound to Porthos’ leg and wisely used the man’s belt to stem the flow of blood. Porthos could only feel gratitude toward the man for everything he’d done.

 

_“Here,” Féret stated as he placed three full water skins within the larger man’s reach. “Don’t worry, I’ve got plenty as well. Besides, I fully expect to be in the comfort of my warm bed later tonight.”_

_Porthos chose not to contradict the man, both of them knowing well that it would take many hours to reach Paris, and the trip would be a grueling one, considering both horse and rider’s weariness. Instead, the large man tried to smile at the comment, even though it likely came out more as a grimace due to the unrelenting throbbing of his leg. He hated sitting there helplessly while Féret, who was also wounded, departed to complete the journey home so Treville could be informed of their perilous state._

_Next to him lay Aramis, the man’s features pale except for the reddish-brown stain that marked his temple where he’d been struck. That the marksman was still unconscious, and hadn’t shown the faintest signs of awareness, was beyond concerning. Then there was the fate of their other two friends. Porthos had been in too much pain to notice when d’Artagnan had arrived, and had only seen the end of the drama that had transpired at the cliff’s edge._

_Féret had been able to confirm only that the two men hadn’t ended up at the bottom of the ravine below, but had instead landed on a small ledge some fifteen feet down. The distance made little difference at this point, however, since they had neither the supplies nor the physical ability to make their way down to check on the men, so now Porthos wavered between desolation at the men’s deaths and hope that they’d survived the drop._

_“Porthos, are you alright?” Féret asked, interrupting the man’s thoughts._

_Again, the large man tried to dredge up a smile as he replied, “I’m fine.” With a look to the skies, he said, “You’d better be going. It’ll be dark soon enough and you’ve still got a long ride ahead of you.”_

_The Musketeer looked ready to argue, but then simply nodded, gripping Porthos’ shoulder for a moment before rising and leaving. Porthos had watched as Féret climbed awkwardly onto his horse and rode away, the large man suddenly feeling more alone than he had since he’d become a Musketeer._

 

An upward glance suggested that they had another hour, possibly two, before darkness fell, the sun already getting into position for its descent. With a groan, Porthos unfastened the leather around his leg and bit his lip as the blood rushed back into the limb. He let circulation return for several minutes before tightening the belt once more, the blood from his wound still flowing too freely for him to survive otherwise. With Aramis unconscious beside him, he knew he was in for a long, painful night, needing to stay awake not only to look out for his friend, but also to continue caring for his injury.

 

His current position was so unlike what he was used to, usually being amongst those saving the day, and the forced inactivity made him clench his jaw until it ached. Helpless was not a word often associated with him, and even during his early days as an orphan, he’d quickly found ways to survive. It was, he reflected, a trait that was ingrained in him as deeply as Aramis’ need to heal, and Athos’ need to do his duty. Regardless of the varied roles he’d taken on in his life, he was above all, a survivor.

 

The thought struck a cord and reminded him of Athos and d’Artagnan lying helplessly below, and he wondered if after this experience, the label could be applied to them as well; he couldn’t help but pray that it would. That he’d been unable to look at them with his own eyes only accentuated his fear, irrationally believing that he’d have been able to tell whether or not they were still alive. Shaking his head at himself in disgust, he rubbed his bandana across his face, wiping away the sweat that had collected there. It was a good reminder to drink, and he tipped a water skin to his lips, gazing at Aramis as he swallowed several mouthfuls.

 

The marksman would need water as well, but it would be difficult to get him to take it unless he woke. That fact didn’t deter Porthos and he embraced his goal of waking the man, relieved at having something useful to do while they waited. “Aramis,” he began, tapping his hand against his friend’s cheek. “You’ve been asleep long enough. Time to wake up, my friend.” Porthos was rewarded with the minutest of movements as the marksman’s head shifted slightly to get away from the other man’s hand.

 

Buoyed by the result, Porthos poured a small amount of water into his cupped hand, letting it drip onto Aramis’ forehead and then cupping the marksman’s cheek with his still damp fingers. The sensation seemed to pull the unconscious man closer to awareness as he again tried to roll his head away, moaning softly as he shifted. “That’s good, Aramis, you’ve almost got it. Just need to open your eyes now,” the larger man coaxed, shifting his hand to the marksman’s chest.

 

Aramis’ eyelids began to flutter as he battled against the injury that had felled him. Porthos continued a soft stream of encouraging words as he rubbed his thumb along his friend’s collarbone, hoping the sensation would both comfort and further rouse the man. As the marksman’s eyes began to open, Porthos turned his upper body slightly, shading his friend’s face from the sun’s rays. He’d had more than his fair share of concussions and recalled with vivid clarity how painful bright light could be to a concussed man’s sensitive eyes.

 

Aramis only managed to open his eyes partway and he blinked several times as he tried to focus, finally mumbling, “Porthos?”

 

“Yeah, ‘Mis, it’s me,” the larger man grinned. “It’s good to have you back.”

 

The marksman’s brow furrowed as he asked, “Where did I go?”

 

Porthos couldn’t help himself and he snorted at Aramis’ confused question. Shifting his hand to fondly brush the hair back from the marksman’s forehead he replied, “Nowhere, but you’ve been out for a while and I was starting to get worried.”

 

“Out?” Aramis repeated, not yet remembering what had happened to him or the others.

 

“Yes, you were hit on the head. Do you remember that?” Porthos asked, needing to assess his friend’s state.

 

Aramis closed his eyes and was quiet for several long seconds, until Porthos thought he’d gone back to sleep, but then he said, “Think it was a pistol butt.”

 

Porthos looked at him askance, eying the bruised and bloodied spot on his temple before giving a nod. “Yeah, that seems about right, and it explains why you were out for so long.”

 

“Mmm,” the marksman hummed, again falling silent for several moments until he forced his lids open to squint up at the other man. “You alright?”

 

Porthos brought the water skin to Aramis’ mouth, one hand lifting the marksman’s head so he could drink without choking, as he weighed the pros of cons of admitting his injury to his friend. On the one hand, it was possible that Aramis might be able to rally enough to sew his leg wound closed, something that Féret had been unable to do because of the injury to his dominant arm. Unfortunately, Porthos had also failed at the task due to the sheer agony of stitching his own skin, which had him lightheaded and nauseas each time he attempted it. On the other hand, Aramis was obviously having difficulty seeing clearly, and if the look of pain was anything to go by, it was unlikely that he could even sit up on his own, let alone hold a needle and thread. Although he knew that he’d pay for his choice later, Porthos answered as he withdrew the water skin. “I’m fine, ‘Mis.”

 

“Good,” the marksman breathed out, his eyes closing and staying closed as his breaths evened out in sleep.

 

Returning his hand to rest on Aramis’ chest, Porthos leaned back against the meagre support at his back and resigned himself to a long, boring wait alone.

* * *

There were times when waking had been a long, torturous process, the gossamer veils of sleep progressively lifting one by one until light appeared and he’d re-entered the land of the living. Other times, the process had been painfully swift, shifting with lightning speed from full blackness to light at a rate that was both dizzying and terrifying in its intensity. This time emulated the latter and Athos gasped with the extreme sensations that flooded his mind as his eyes snapped open.

 

His breaths came in quick, harsh pants as though trying to drink in the air around him. His mind was assaulted immediately by images recalled in startling clarity: the terror in the eyes of the man he’d been fighting as he’d slipped over the rocky precipice; the horror on d’Artagnan’s face when he’d been unable to pull his mentor to safety; and the confusing view of the sky, ground, and rocks as they’d tumbled downwards, the entire time anchored together by the Gascon’s unrelenting grip. d’Artagnan had refused to let go. The thought brought a choked sob from his chest as his eyes focused on the face of the man lying beside him.

 

The young man’s normally healthy complexion had been replaced by a far paler version, and Athos winced in sympathy at the pinched look on the young man’s face that spoke of pain that was intense enough to be felt even while unconscious. From his position, he couldn’t really see much of the Gascon’s body or his injuries and needed to raise himself up so he could have a better look.

 

The objective of moving was easier said than done, and needed to be accomplished in carefully considered phases. First, he rolled his head in the opposite direction, startling slightly when he was met with a view of open space. Commanding his left hand to move, he was pleasantly surprised when it did so without significant pain, and he traced a path along the outcropping they laid upon until his fingers reached its edge less than a foot from his side. It was not ideal, but at least he wasn’t at immediate risk of restarting his descent to the ravine below.

 

Next, he cautiously tested each of his legs and arms in turn, biting back a groan as he discovered that he’d broken his right arm. With effort, he rolled from his back and toward the broken limb, stabilizing himself on his left hand by placing it carefully on the ground between himself and d’Artagnan. His eyes were automatically drawn to the throbbing point in his arm and then continued downwards to where the Gascon still loosely gripped his hand. Fleetingly, he recalled wondering whether the grip would survive their fall, and his lips quirked involuntarily at the knowledge that it had.

 

Adjusting his position further, he lifted his broken limb from the young man’s grasp and used his good hand to tuck the injured one into his doublet to stabilize it. Next, he pushed his body closer to the cliff wall, leaning against it and grimacing as the pressure awakened the bruises that were blossoming on his back. Finally, he could turn his attention to the young man. Athos wasted no time in attempting to wake the Gascon, knowing that the easiest way to identify his injuries would be to hear from the young man what hurt.

 

Uncertain where he could touch without causing more pain, Athos chose to cup the young man’s cheek, avoiding the swath of red that painted his protégé’s forehead. “d’Artagnan, I need you to wake up.” He ignored the hoarseness of his voice, gently tapping the Gascon’s cheek in the hope that he’d be able to break through the curtain of unconsciousness. Clearing his throat, he tried again. “d’Artagnan, please, I need to know how badly you’re hurt.” It never even occurred to Athos to wonder whether the young man beside him was alive or not, so strong was his need to get a second chance and to explain his horrific behaviour over the past few weeks.

 

He swallowed now, with difficulty, his mouth and throat parched after too long without water, and idly he wondered how long it had been and if there was anyone coming for them. The thought made him pause for a moment and look upwards, gauging the distance to the top while knowing that there was no way he’d be able to scale the side of the cliff in order to save them. A soft moan alerted him to the Gascon’s possible awakening and drew his gaze downward to the young man’s face. “d’Artagnan, open your eyes for me.” Unconsciously, he counted the seconds as he waited to see if he would get his wish until the Gascon finally managed to pry his lids open to a slit.

 

Something eased in his chest at seeing the thin band of dark brown eyes as he said, “d’Artagnan, thank God.” The words had scarcely left his mouth when the young man’s eyes closed again, and Athos rushed to stop him from passing out again. “No, d’Artagnan, you have to stay awake.” Athos tapped the young man’s cheek lightly to emphasize his statement. Though he didn’t like the groan that rumbled in the Gascon’s chest, he was pleased at the fact that his protégé rolled his head in an effort to get away from his attempts to wake him. Gripping the young man’s chin to turn his head back to where it was, Athos said, “If you open your eyes, I promise to stop.”

 

d’Artagnan’s chest rose with a deeper breath, which hitched partway through as his injured flank protested the movement. Another low sound of pain accompanied the Gascon’s eyelids rising as his left hand began to move towards the pain in his right side. Athos captured the hand, not wanting the young man to hurt himself any further. At the older man’s touch, d’Artagnan blinked sluggishly, trying to identify the face that hovered worriedly above him. “’Thos?”

 

“Yes, d’Artagnan,” he squeezed the young man’s hand comfortingly. “It’s me. Can you tell me where it hurts?”

 

The Gascon’s breathing sped up a little, and he clenched his mentor’s hand as he adjusted to the pain of being awake. Several seconds later he mumbled, “Everywhere.”

 

The answer ratcheted Athos’ concern higher, but he forced himself to remain calm, not allowing any of the tension he was feeling to bleed into his voice. “Can you be more specific?”

 

d’Artagnan’s eyes found his and he held the young man’s gaze steadily, hoping the Gascon was drawing some strength from him. Moments later, d’Artagnan replied. “Leg, side, shoulder, head.” The short conversation seemed to have drained him, and Athos watched as the young man’s eyes threatened to close again.

 

“d’Artagnan, I’m sorry, but I need to check your injuries,” Athos explained, already dreading the pain he’d be causing. Tiredly, the Gascon looked up at him and gave a minute nod.

 

The older man had no idea whether the motion was meant to indicate permission or acknowledgement, but it was irrelevant – he needed to confirm that none of the young man’s injuries were immediately life-threatening. He began with a visual examination of the Gascon’s legs, but was unable to discern anything simply by sight. Steeling himself, he gently ran a hand along the young man’s right leg, seeing the tensing of his protégé’s body almost immediately. Slowing, he continued to shift his gaze between the limb beneath his hand and d’Artagnan’s face, gauging when he was getting close by the grimace that appeared.

 

When he touched the Gascon’s knee, he knew even without the short, indrawn breath of pain that he’d found the source d’Artagnan’s trouble. The joint was terribly hot and swollen, and Athos could feel its heat even through the leather of the young man’s breeches. “d’Artagnan, I’m going to have to make a hole here so I can take a better look.” Athos knew he could try to roll the Gascon’s breeches up high enough to reveal his knee, but cutting a hole in them instead seemed a much kinder option.

 

With another curt dip of his head, d’Artagnan indicated his continued awareness of what was happening. Athos awkwardly reached behind his back in search of his blade, only to come up empty as he realized he must have lost the dagger when he’d fallen. “d’Artagnan, I’ve lost my blade. I’ll need to see if you still have yours.” The Gascon made a feeble attempt to turn and the older man braced him at once with his knee, sliding his hand behind the injured man’s back while he tried to ignore the grunt of pain that was pulled from d’Artagnan. Seconds later, Athos was shifting his leg away so that d’Artagnan could lie flat once more, his hand clutching the young man’s main gauche.

 

Athos stared at the Gascon’s leg for a moment, wondering how he would manage the task with only one arm, when d’Artagnan seemed to rouse and reached his hand down to hold his breeches taut. The older man wasted no time and slipped the sharp knife into the leather below the young man’s knee, cutting through several inches of the tough material until it could be pulled away from the joint. For a heartbeat, Athos wished Aramis was there instead of him, his own knowledge woefully inadequate for the situation. Then, he forced himself to take a steadying breath, placing the dagger beside him so that he’d have his hand free to palpate the knee.

 

He could hear the immediate change in d’Artagnan’s breathing at his touch, but forced himself to continue until he felt relatively certain that the leg was in place and nothing was broken above or below it. Removing his hand and then waiting for several seconds so the Gascon could compose himself, he stated, “I believe it’s just badly sprained.”

 

d’Artagnan replied with a noncommittal grunt, the sweat on his brow demonstrating that regardless of the cause, the injury was a painful one. Athos sat back for a couple minutes, giving the young man time to recover again. As if understanding what the older man was doing, the Gascon muttered a soft, “Alright,” once his breathing had returned to closer than normal.

 

With a dip of his chin, Athos leaned forward again, this time opening the young man’s doublet and pressing his fingers along both sides of his friend’s ribcage. The right side shifted under his touch and corresponded to a pain-filled whimper, prompting Athos to softly murmur, “Sorry,” before continuing. He couldn’t be certain, but he believed two, possibly three, of the ribs beneath his fingers had given way too much for them not to be broken.

 

He moved on to d’Artagnan’s shoulder next, guessing that the muscles were simply sore due to the strain that had been placed on them earlier. In the Gascon’s current position, he was unable to tell if it was anything more serious and decided to leave it for Aramis’ attention later. _Assuming he’s still alive_ , a voice inside his head added. A contusion on the young man’s temple rounded out his friend’s injuries, although Athos was certain that, like him, the Gascon’s clothing hid a multitude of bruises and scrapes. Having no supplies with which to tend any of the hurts he’d found, but satisfied that at least d’Artagnan was not in immediate peril, he turned his attention to the task of keeping the young man awake.

 

“So tell me, d’Artagnan,” he began, an undercurrent of anger now coloring his words, “what the hell were you thinking by not letting go?”


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> d’Artagnan’s eyes widened momentarily as his breathing sped up before he gasped in pain, squeezing his eyes closed instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's continuing to read, comment and leave kudos. Thanks also to AZGirl for being a wonderful beta.

As the sun continued to inch its way closer to disappearing for the night, Porthos could feel his energy waning in tandem with the weakening light. He should have asked Féret to collect wood for a fire before he’d left, but the urgency of the man’s journey had overshadowed rational thought. While the day was still warm with the residual effects of the sun’s rays, Porthos knew it would not stay that way for long, and worst of all, he didn’t relish the idea of spending a night in full darkness.

 

Next to him, Aramis was still resting quietly, and the larger man was wondering if it was time to attempt rousing his friend once more. The medic had drilled into them the importance of regularly waking anyone suffering from a head wound, and despite the fact that he’d be unhappy about being woken, Porthos knew his friend would be more upset if he was allowed to sleep. Resigning himself to the need to check on the marksman, he returned to his previous strategy of calling the man’s name while gently tapping his cheek.

 

Porthos was pleased to find that Aramis didn’t seem quite as deeply unconscious as before, opening his eyes after only a few seconds. The large man beamed down at him, his joy at seeing his friend awake overshadowing the persistent throbbing of his leg. “Aramis, do you remember what happened?”

 

The marksman blinked lazily a couple of times as he attempted to focus on his friend’s face. Licking his dry lips, he tentatively replied, “I was hit on the head?”

 

“Yeah, that’s right,” Porthos confirmed, reaching for the water skin with one hand, as his other supported Aramis’ head so he could drink. After several swallows, the marksman pulled his head away to indicate he’d had enough. Depositing the water skin beside him, the large man asked, “What else do you remember?”

 

Aramis’ brow furrowed with a mix of pain and concentration, the concussion slowing his normal quick thinking to a mere crawl. Finally, he said, “We were attacked…on our way back to Paris. Any idea who they were?”

 

“No,” Porthos shook his head slightly. “A search of their bodies might give some clue, but there’s been no time for that.”

 

“At least d’Artagnan’s safe at home,” Aramis huffed softly, finding solace in the memory that the Gascon hadn’t accompanied them. To his surprise, Porthos didn’t comment and actually looked away, the odd behaviour registering even in the marksman’s befuddled mind. Squinting up at his friend, he asked, “What haven’t you told me?”

 

Needing to keep his injured friend calm, Porthos answered, “Nothing, Aramis; there’s nothing else to tell.”

 

Certain that his instinct was correct, and that there was more of which he was unaware, the marksman began to shift, intending to at least sit up. Porthos placed a hand on his chest immediately, exerting a gentle pressure to keep him lying down as he said, “No, Aramis, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

 

Aramis huffed quietly as he continued his efforts to rise. “I know it’s not, but I need to sit up. Now help me, or at least stop working against me.”

 

Against his better judgement, Porthos positioned his hand at Aramis’ back instead of his front, and gently guided the man to an upright position. After spending nearly a minute with his head hanging down to his chest, the marksman regained enough energy to shift himself backwards to the tree at his back, where he slumped against its support. Raising his hands to his aching head, he lamented, “God, I hate concussions.”

 

As he sat, cradling his brittle skull, a memory forced itself into the foreground, a vision of Athos struggling with another man about to fall off the edge of the cliff. With a gasp, his hands dropped as he peered with wide eyes at Porthos and asked, “Athos - did he fall?”

 

The answer was immediately obvious as the larger man looked away for a moment, doing his best to hide the flash of pain on his face. Aramis had no words, the breath having been sucked from his chest in that moment as he recalled his desperate attempt to reach his friend in time while his body betrayed him. “No,” he moaned miserably, his hands returning to his fragile head as the throbbing intensified with his grief.

 

“No, Aramis, he’s not dead,” Porthos countered, his head snapping back to the marksman in time to see what his momentary silence had created. He grasped Aramis’ hands in his own, gently pulling them away from the concussed man’s face. He waited until the marksman met his eyes and then said, “At least, I hope he’s not.”

 

The additional comment only served to confuse Aramis further. “What?”

 

Squeezing the hands he still held in his own, Porthos tried to explain. “I missed a lot of what happened, but at some point, d’Artagnan showed up and tried to pull Athos back up. I can only guess that he wasn’t able to, and they both fell onto a ledge about 15 feet from the top. There’s no way to tell if they’re alive or not, but until I have proof that says otherwise, I choose the believe that they are.”

 

Aramis processed his friend’s words as his gaze automatically shifted to the spot where he’d seen Athos disappear from view. Pushing aside his fear, he swallowed thickly before asking, “How do they look?”

 

Porthos shook his head, regret shadowing his features as he replied. “Don’t know, Féret was the one who checked on them before he left to get help.” As the words left his mouth, he was already wishing he could take them back, and he held his breath for several moments as he waited to see if his friend was aware enough to catch the slip he’d just made.

 

Turning his gaze back on the larger man, Aramis narrowed his eyes, ignoring the fact that he was still having trouble focusing. “Why didn’t you check on them yourself?’ Porthos began to shrug, but apparently the marksman was feeling better and was now on a roll. “You said you’re fine.”

 

Despite Porthos’ certainty that the marksman was having difficulty seeing clearly, the glare he received was enough to convince him to be truthful with the other man. “I hurt my leg,” he admitted quietly.

 

Without warning, Aramis’ hands flew to the other man’s lower limbs and a second later, Porthos let out a yelp, unable to stop himself or prepare for his friend’s unexpected action. “ _That_ is not fine,” the marksman hissed, waving his damp hand at his friend, and knowing without checking that the wetness he was feeling was blood. Porthos clamped his jaw shut against the words that threatened to spring forth, recognizing that his friend was in no mood to listen to his poor excuses.

 

Taking a calming breath, Aramis repositioned himself for a better look, leaning over the large man’s leg. Squinting, he identified the large reddish-brown stain which sat below Porthos’ belt. “Why didn’t you close this wound?”

 

Porthos gave another shrug as he replied, “Féret hurt his arm so he couldn’t do it, and I got lightheaded when I tried.”

 

Aramis let out an exasperated huff as he said, “You passed out, didn’t you?”

 

The large man looked sheepish, but he didn’t dispute the marksman’s assertion. With an aborted shake of his head, Aramis ignored the resulting dizziness as he prepared to stand.

 

“What’re you doing?” Porthos asked with concern.

 

Unsteadily gaining his feet, Aramis tried to take in their surroundings in the rapidly waning light. “We need a fire and then I need to stitch that leg. Otherwise, you’re in danger of losing it by the time help arrives. I assume we still have supplies with the horses?”

 

Porthos gave a nod, even as he motioned towards the animals who had been tethered by Féret several feet from their position. With a grunt of acknowledgement, Aramis staggered off to collect wood and then his medical supplies. As much as he wanted to berate his friend, there would be time for that later. For now, he would channel his anger and adrenaline into remaining upright and conscious long enough to take care of what needed to be done. 

* * *

d’Artagnan swallowed uncomfortably at Athos’ question, wondering if there was any answer he could offer that wouldn’t make the man beside him angrier. Why didn’t he let his friend fall? Perhaps it was the multitude of times that the older man had placed himself in harm’s way to prevent his protégé from being injured. Or, it might be the simple fact that the two of them were brothers-in-arms, and it was just what Musketeers did for one another - _all for one_ was their regiment’s motto, after all. While these were all plausible explanations, d’Artagnan knew in his heart that they were not, however, the truth. His reason for not letting go was simple – he could not bear to live with the knowledge that he’d again failed one of his brothers.

 

He knew that Athos would never accept such an answer, pointing out the flaw in his logic, most notably that the two of them falling only provided the Grim Reaper with a chance at a second poor soul. But d’Artagnan recognized that logic had nothing whatsoever to do with his decision, which had been made purely out of love. After everything that had happened, and the growing rift between them over the past several weeks, the Gascon knew there was no way he would fail his brother again. Of course, he’d never imagined in the moments before they fell that he would have to explain any of this to Athos, certain that they were plummeting to their deaths. Instead, he’d gained a small measure of comfort from the fact that they’d at least spend their last few seconds on earth together. Apparently, fate had had other plans.

 

“d’Artagnan, why didn’t you let go?” The repeated question brought the young man back from his musings. Focusing on Athos’ face, he could see that the older man’s expression had softened somewhat, morphing from anger to concern, and the latter emotion surprised him. Given how tense things had been as of late, he’d been convinced that his mentor had completely stopped caring for him. Perhaps it was simply the worry of one soldier for another, his muddled brain offered.

 

“d’Artagnan, are you alright?” Athos’ tone now matched his features, and the Gascon was sure that it was concern that he was hearing and seeing, though the reason for its presence still baffled him.

 

Deciding that he should probably offer some sort of response soon, he summoned the energy to answer. “I’m fine, Athos. How are you?”

 

The look on the older man’s face was shifting again, and d’Artagnan watched as his mentor’s brow furrowed and the lines there deepened. Some part of the Gascon’s brain realized that his words had managed the opposite of what he’d been trying to accomplish, and now the worry seemed to be changing to fear. Frowning up at his former mentor’s face, he asked, “Athos, are you alright?”

 

Exasperation flashed over the older man’s features, and d’Artagnan wondered what he’d done wrong this time. Fortunately, Athos spoke before the Gascon could do or say anything else that would get him into more trouble. “I’m fine, d’Artagnan, but you seem to be having a hard time following our conversation.”

 

The young man’s brow crinkled as he tried to recall what would have given Athos such an impression, but his throbbing skull made coherent thought almost impossible, and he gave up just moments later. With a one-sided shrug, he said, “We’re still alive.”

 

The comment was meant to be a statement of fact, but Athos’ eyes shuttered immediately, his mind assaulted at once by images of d’Artagnan’s face above him as he was slowly pulled over the edge of the cliff. Athos had been horrified that he’d been unable to pull free, and that his failure would condemn his friend to the same fate he now faced. In those few moments, it became abundantly clear how harshly he’d been treating the younger man, and he was ashamed that the Gascon’s final act was to try and save him, even when he didn’t want to be saved.

 

He’d understood within seconds of d’Artagnan grabbing his hand that the younger man wouldn’t have the strength to pull him up on his own. With that realization, he’d tried everything to escape the other man’s hold, but the Gascon’s grip was relentless. He was certain that the amount of time they spent falling through empty space was no more than a heartbeat, but it had been enough time for him to regret his recent behaviour and pray for the young man’s survival. It seemed that his prayer had been answered, although his own survival had been quite unexpected.

 

Now, d’Artagnan was looking up at him with innocent brown eyes, stating that they were both still alive. Rather than bringing him peace, the statement seemed accusatory, reminding him of every scathing word and derogatory thought he’d recently directed at the man beside him. That d’Artagnan would still choose to sacrifice himself after everything Athos had said and done only served to fuel the guilt that was already burning in his soul. How could the Gascon not realize that?

 

“Athos?” It seemed that this time it had been the older man who’d fallen silent as he was lost in his thoughts, and he forced himself back to the present.

 

Forcing a calm he didn’t feel, the older man asked again, needing to know why the Gascon had acted as he had. “Why didn’t you let go?

 

d’Artagnan’s gaze wavered away from the other man’s as he realized that nothing but the truth would do – or at least a version of it. “Didn’t want you to die,” he mumbled.

 

Athos frowned at the odd answer, certain that there was more to it. “But it served no purpose to die with me.” The Gascon merely offered another slight shrug in reply. Sensing that he would get nothing more at the moment, Athos changed tact. “How’s your breathing? You have some broken ribs on your right side.”

 

“Yeah, I know. Don’t think that one ever healed from last time,” the young man replied.

 

Athos searched his memory for the last time when d’Artagnan had been injured, but could think of nothing recent enough to still be plaguing him. The Gascon was blinking lazily at him, and he could tell that the young man was still having difficulty thinking clearly. Although it was not his intention to take advantage of his injured friend’s state, Athos sensed that he was missing something important and chose to forge ahead. “Which last time?” he asked.

 

“You know,” d’Artagnan’s eyelids drooped momentarily before he managed to prop them up once more. “When I got robbed.”

 

Athos’ mind went back to the night when the Gascon had arrived at the garrison, but there had been precious little he’d shared as he’d delivered his report to Treville. Licking his dry lips, he pressed, “The men who robbed you also hurt you?”

 

d’Artagnan let out a soft snort, reminding Athos of previous occasions when the young man’s thinking had been clouded by wine instead of pain and injury. “Seemed to enjoy their work too much,” he said with a hint of a bitter grin on his face. The look faded as he continued, “They wouldn’t even stop once I was on the ground and couldn’t defend myself.”

 

Athos winced as he realized that he’d formed the hand of his broken arm into a fist, sending a sharp pain along the entire length of the limb. Forcing his hand to relax and his tone to remain even, he said, “There is no shame in being overcome by superior numbers.”

 

His statement was met with a huff and a look of self-loathing, as the Gascon replied, “I didn’t even see them coming. One of them had a knife at my throat before I knew what was happening.”

 

d’Artagnan’s answer was unexpected. Athos had believed the young man had at least given his assailants a good fight before losing his possessions. Frowning, he recalled his conversation with Garon, and the doctor’s dismissal of his concerns. “Were you by any chance sick before you were attacked?”

 

The Gascon gave a shaky nod as he replied. “Thought I was dying.” d’Artagnan’s gaze had flickered to the side with his statement, and Athos’ vision now wavered as his friend’s confession reverberated in his head.

 

_Thought I was dying._ The garrison physician had assured them that there was no real cause for concern – spindleberries would cause some discomfort, but nothing more. From the bits and pieces he’d gleaned from d’Artagnan, the young man was lucky to be alive. With that realization, Athos swallowed thickly, his guilt at not pursuing the Gascon surging uncomfortably to the forefront. “Why,” he began and then paused as his voice broke. “Why didn’t you return to the Paris when you got sick?”

 

The Gascon was still looking away, and Athos found himself wishing he could see the young man’s eyes as he waited for an answer. When it finally came, the older man again found himself rocked, the words laced with deep despair. “I didn’t want anyone else to suffer for another of my mistakes.”

 

The statement carved a gouge in Athos’ heart, and the organ skipped a beat as he came to understand how deeply his censure of the young man had affected him. Although d’Artagnan’s sickness and subsequent loss of his possessions had occurred through no fault of his own, the young man had come to believe that it was yet another in a long line of mistakes. As a result, he’d chosen to endure the experience on his own rather than seeking the safe haven that the garrison was meant to represent for everyone in their regiment.

 

At some point during his introspections, d’Artagnan’s eyes had turned back and landed on Athos’ pale face. Some part of his mind recognized that the expression he saw was cause for worry, and his chest tightened as fresh fear sparked, his first thought being that he’d once more done something wrong. Without meaning too, he let out a soft sob of grief as he remembered what he’d set out to do. The sound tore at Athos’ heart and he automatically reached for d’Artagnan’s hand, hoping to offer some comfort against the physical and emotional pain that seemed to have the young man in its grip.

 

The Gascon tried to pull his hand free, but Athos’ hold was strong and he wouldn’t allow it. When he realized he would not be able to free himself, d’Artagnan allowed his hand to go limp as he steeled his nerve and began to speak. “Athos, I’m sorry for everything. I didn’t think through the consequences of my actions, and I hurt all of you as a result. When we return,” – _if we return,_ his mind silently corrected – “I’ll resign my commission. I hope you’ll find it in your heart to someday forgive me for everything that’s happened.”

 

“No!” Athos’ exclamation was quick and sharp, and the young man couldn’t help but jerk at the vehemence of his mentor’s tone. d’Artagnan’s eyes widened momentarily as his breathing sped up before he gasped in pain, squeezing his eyes closed instead. Athos witnessed the reaction and immediately regretted his instinctive response, the Gascon now suffering as his broken ribs shifted too quickly with his rapid breaths. Forcing himself to remain steady, Athos coached the younger man. “d’Artagnan, you must slow down your breathing. I know it’s hard, but you must try to calm yourself.”

 

The Gascon’s brow was furrowed and his eyes stayed closed, but moments later, Athos could see that d’Artagnan was gaining the upper hand, his breathing slowing as the deep lines on his face eased. The older man waited for his protégé to open his eyes, but when they remained closed, he decided to forge ahead anyway, confident that the young man was still awake. “d’Artagnan, you cannot resign your commission, because you did nothing wrong.” As he’d hoped, his words prompted the Gascon to look at him, but Athos didn’t stop long enough to allow his friend to speak.

 

“d’Artagnan, I have been silent long enough, and now I must insist that you hear me out.” He paused for a moment and received a hesitant nod from the young man to continue. “Thank you,” he said, softly. “In everything that has happened, you have behaved correctly, both as a solider and as a friend. Porthos and I told you earlier that you did nothing wrong by leaving Aramis in order to provide us with much-needed intelligence. Nor did you do anything wrong when you shared a family recipe with him in the hope that you might tempt his flagging appetite, and from what I understand, you were successful.”

 

“But, Athos, I poisoned him and half the garrison,” d’Artagnan blurted out, no longer able to restrain himself.

 

“You made a mistake, and you were punished for it,” Athos countered.

 

“But I failed at my mission,” the Gascon argued.

 

“True, but there were extenuating circumstances, which you _should_ _have_ explained to the Captain,” the older man contradicted. At d’Artagnan’s confused expression, Athos explained, “The fact that you were sick when you were robbed of your things.”

 

The Gascon’s expression cleared slightly as understanding dawned, but Athos was certain he hadn’t yet managed to convince the young man. “d’Artagnan, what is the Musketeer motto?”

 

Hesitantly, the young man replied, “One for all, and all for one.”

 

“And do you believe a man should become exempt from that when he makes an error?” Athos pressed.

 

“No, but I made so many mistakes,” d’Artagnan countered, but Athos was already shaking his head.

 

“You did not. That you could not complete your mission falls on another,” the older man stated, thinking back again to his conversation with Garon. The man hadn’t told him everything, Athos knew, and he now wondered how much of a coincidence it had been that d’Artagnan had been attacked on the heels of having been ill. Further, why would bandits leave behind a perfectly good horse, unless they’d specifically been ordered not to leave the boy without a means of getting himself back to Paris? He still lacked some important details, but Athos was confident that the Gascon’s mishap lay in the hands of someone other than fate.

 

d’Artagnan’s eyes were clouding with concussion-fueled confusion, Athos’ words so opposed to everything the Gascon had been telling himself for so long, that there was no way he could believe what he was hearing. Shaking his head minutely before wincing and closing his eyes against the resulting pain, he reopened them moments later as he mumbled. “Doesn’t matter anymore. Decision’s made.”

 

The lowly-spoken statement made the older man’s heart skip with a surge of adrenaline as he imagined the worst. “Did something else happen?” he asked tremulously, his mind searching for something that might have forced Treville’s hand.

 

“No,” the young man breathed out, prompting the men to adopt matching expressions of relief, albeit for different reasons. In d’Artagnan’s case it was that he’d managed to avoid making any additional blunders that might bring shame on his friends. For Athos, the feeling was driven solely at having received confirmation that his protégé had done nothing further that might result in losing his commission.

 

With a long, controlled exhale, Athos asked, “To what decision do you refer?”

 

A look of bitterness crept over d’Artagnan’s face as he revealed his thoughts. “Leaving,” he said, pausing to take a couple painful breaths. “Before anyone else gets hurt.”

 

“No, d’Artagnan,” the older man rushed to convince his friend. The Gascon’s eyelids were beginning to droop and his breaths were sounding increasingly more painful and labored. Recognizing that the young man needed to rest, Athos changed tact. “Promise me, d’Artagnan.” He squeezed his protégé’s hand to make sure he had the boy’s attention. “Promise me that you’ll say nothing to the Captain until we’ve had a chance to talk with Porthos and Aramis.” He could see the refusal on the Gascon’s lips and continued speaking, unwilling to relent. “d’Artagnan, please, do this one thing for me.”

 

Whether he’d managed to convince the young man with his plea, or d’Artagnan was simply too tired to argue, Athos had no idea, but the older man didn’t care as he heard the slurred words. “I promise.”

 

Athos nearly slumped in relief, and didn’t even mind when the young man’s eyes slipped closed, no longer able to battle his body’s need for sleep. “Rest, my friend,” the older man soothed. “You must reserve your strength for when we’re rescued.” As he uttered the words, his eyes drifted upwards, wondering if anyone knew of their precarious state and whether rescue would truly arrive.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As they rode through the garrison gates, Treville prayed that their mission was a rescue rather than a retrieval of lifeless bodies.

Moving around turned out to be a constant battle for Aramis, as his head protested every action and thought he attempted. He’d stumbled around on legs as unsteady as a newborn foal’s, the threat of crumpling to the ground continuously hanging over him as he battled to infuse his limbs with the strength needed to stay upright. His vision wavered, shifting nauseatingly between double, clear, and, at times, maddeningly dimming at the edges, making him wonder more than once if willpower would be enough to convince his flagging body to complete what needed to be done.

 

Gritting his teeth against his body’s frailties, Aramis eventually gathered enough wood to create a fire, stumbling to his knees and clawing his way back to an upright position more times than he could count throughout the process. He was grateful when Porthos took over, positioning the kindling and coaxing the small flame to catch; the act allowed Aramis to dismiss his private concerns that he might end up overbalancing and falling into the fledging fire as he was attempting to light it. Instead, he struggled gamely back to his feet, this time aiming for the horses. He made two trips, first bringing back medical supplies, and then returning to gather blankets so they might be more comfortable.

 

Noting the greenish cast to his friend’s face, Porthos didn’t have the heart to tease Aramis about the fact that he could have saved himself a trip by loading the necessary items onto one of the horses and leading it to their campsite. Instead, he kept a wary eye on the marksman, blowing out a relieved breath when the man all but collapsed onto the ground beside him.

 

Porthos waited silently for the other man to collect himself, all too familiar with the controlled breaths that Aramis was now taking in an effort to calm the throbbing of his fragile skull. A few minutes later, Aramis carefully rolled his head towards the larger man, steeling himself with a deep breath before he pushed himself upright. “Alright,” he said as he kneeled next to Porthos’ wounded leg, his hands already reaching for the blood-soaked breeches. “What am I going to find under here?”

 

“Stab wound,” Porthos replied, already bracing himself for the pain that would accompany his friend’s ministrations.

 

Aramis grunted in reply, pulling at the edges of the torn leather to allow better access to the damaged skin and muscle underneath. As he squinted at the wound, his vision wavered maddeningly, and he blinked in an attempt to see clearly, finally making out a two-inch-wide gap where a blade had entered. Leaning closer, he squinted again, muttering as he prodded at the skin, “This didn’t come out cleanly.”

 

Porthos grunted in pain, before confirming his friend’s statement. “No, got stuck in the muscle for a second. Probably made things worse when he yanked harder to get his blade free.”

 

“Hmm,” Aramis hummed, already turning away and reaching for a water skin and clean linen. With as much care as he could muster, the medic cleaned the blood away from the wound, revealing the jaggedness of the skin surrounding the entry point. Switching the water for a bottle of wine, he poured a liberal amount over Porthos’ leg as he commented, “It’s a bit red and swollen. Infection might be setting in.”

 

Porthos was unable to manage anything more than a jerky nod of his head as he dealt with the fire that ignited in his thigh as the wine worked to further clean and disinfect his wound. By the time that Aramis pulled the bottle away, the larger man was pale and trembling, his breaths heaving in and out of chest. The marksman paused to look over at his friend, and saw Porthos’ sweat-covered face shining in the firelight. “Sorry,” he said, recognizing how much pain he’d just caused the other man.

 

Several moments later, the large man managed to get his breathing under control and he replied, “It’s alright, ‘Mis, I know it needs to be done.”

 

Aramis gave him a soft but pained smile, his hands picking up the needle and thread from his kit and holding both out to the other man. Porthos immediately read the look of contrition and embarrassment on the marksman’s face. Taking both items, the larger man forced his shaky hands to still long enough to thread the needle and then handed them back, pushing aside the worry that flared at the fact that Aramis had to reach twice for the needle before he managed to grasp it. Steadying his voice, Porthos asked, “You sure you can do this?”

 

Aramis shared his friend’s doubts, but infused his voice with as much confidence as he could muster. “I’ve done this so many times, I could probably do it in my sleep.” Inching closer, he said, “Hold still.”

 

The time that it took to stitch the wound closed was equally painful for both men, Porthos clenching his jaw against the agony of having the already inflamed cut closed, while Aramis nearly bit through his lip as he forced his eyes to focus and his fingers to correctly manipulate the needle and thread. As the marksman tied off the last knot, Porthos asked in a thready voice, “Is it done?” He watched as the medic cut the thread and pulled the needle away.

 

Aramis gave a minor dip of his head as he leaned back onto his haunches. “Done.”

 

“Good,” Porthos breathed out, his upper body collapsing slowly backwards toward the ground even as his eyes were closing.

 

Aramis huffed out a humourless laugh as he confirmed that his friend had merely passed out, the blood loss and pain finally catching up to him. As he carefully wiped his hands with a cloth and then rewrapped his supplies, he muttered to himself, “Figures you’d pass out rather than keeping me company.” After a final dousing of wine, Aramis patted the stitches dry and wrapped the injured man’s leg, disgustedly throwing the soiled linen he’d used while tending Porthos’ leg into the fire.

 

He briefly considered laying down to sleep, but dismissed the idea almost at once, admitting to himself that he was no more immune to the effects of a head injury than anyone else. Sighing in acceptance, he scooted backwards to sit at his friend’s side, his mind drifting at once to wonder about the fate of their other two friends. 

* * *

The precarious perch that Athos and d’Artagnan had woken to find themselves on had grown progressively more eerie as the sun dipped and eventually disappeared altogether, leaving the space around them lit only by the dimness of the moon, which was currently hidden from view by the wall of rock at their backs. Athos had remained awake after d’Artagnan had fallen asleep – or possibly, fallen unconscious. He wasn’t sure which description was more accurate, and refused to dwell on what it could mean for the Gascon’s condition if it was the latter instead of the former.

 

The silence that had settled over the two of them had been both welcoming and worrying, leaving Athos without the need to continue the difficult conversation he and d’Artagnan had begun, while also allowing his concern over the boy’s state of mind to grow in the stillness. Left virtually alone while d’Artagnan slept, he could only cling to the hope that the promise he’d elicited from his friend would be enough to prevent any hasty actions which would irrevocably seal the young man’s fate. Despite his limited success, he now felt badly out of his element and was desperate to speak with Aramis and Porthos to help him navigate d’Artagnan’s doubt and need to blame himself.

 

As the thought formed, he realized with a start that he still had no information about the fate of the other two men. It was the first real opportunity he’d had to consider how his other friends were doing, and he now felt a pang of guilt at not having remembered them earlier. He’d caught glimpses of both men as he’d fought at the edge of the cliff and knew that Porthos, at least, had been injured, however he had no idea how gravely. He’d seen Aramis upright and hoped that meant that the marksman was unharmed, but the fact that he and d’Artagnan still languished on the side of the cliff suggested otherwise. If they had been able to, Athos was certain their friends would have rescued them by now.

 

With a soft sigh of frustration, Athos titled his head back to let it rest against the craggy wall, his eyes automatically drifting upwards to look at the starless sky. Normally, the dark velvet above their heads would be filled with bright pinpricks of light, but on this evening, the majority of stars had been obscured by a layer of clouds. The absence of starlight only made their situation seem grimmer, and Athos wrapped his arms around himself more tightly as a shiver crawled up his spine, wincing as the action increased the throbbing in his arm. Exhaling slowly, he watched as his breath fogged before his face before slowing dissipating, his tired brain finally suggesting that the lack of light wasn’t the only reason for his body’s involuntary tremors. It had grown cold, and the residual warmth from the sun’s rays had long since been leached from the stone that supported them.

 

With the realization, Athos shifted carefully, minding his broken arm and staying as far as possible from the edge of the ledge. His first change in position had him drawing even closer to d’Artagnan, before gingerly positioning both arms beneath the boy’s armpits and carefully hauling him upwards. The action intensified the ache in his injured limb, but he bit his bottom lip and forced himself to continue, stopping only once he’d pulled the Gascon between his own legs so that the young man’s back rested against his chest. Dropping his broken arm softly onto his thigh, he closed his eyes and breathed through the agony that encompassed everything from his fingertips to his shoulder, regulating his inhales and exhales until he no longer felt the need to cry with the pain.

 

Incredibly, d’Artagnan had remained boneless throughout the process, and Athos wrapped his left arm around the young man more firmly so they could share the meager heat their bodies were producing. Even though the Gascon was unaware, their closeness brought Athos a level of comfort that had his eyes blinking heavily, his own need for sleep surging to the forefront. Despite recognizing that it was best if he stayed awake, his body betrayed him when several moments later, his eyes remained closed.

 

Many feet above them and back from the edge of the cliff, Aramis added another piece of wood to his fire, praying for time to move more swiftly and for help to arrive. 

* * *

It had been a long and difficult night for the Captain. For some unknown reason he’d felt unaccountably anxious, and had stayed awake late into the night until his body could be denied rest no longer. Despite the fact that he’d abstained from his bed until well after midnight, his mind refused to settle, and no matter how he tossed and turned, sleep remained elusive. Frustrated by his inability to rest, and increasingly uncomfortable lying in bed, he finally rose and dressed a couple hours before dawn.

 

Since he hadn’t actually been asleep, he felt no remorse when he poured himself a large glass of brandy, sitting down at his desk to drink it. With the first mouthful of the strong, fiery liquid, he began to feel some of his disquiet finally melting away. By the time he’d drained and refilled his glass, he was contemplating the possibility of returning to bed, even though his time left for sleep was short.

 

Dismissing the idea and choosing to stay awake, he leaned back in his chair and began to sip at a second glass of brandy, this time enjoying the intense flavours as they slipped over his tongue. Although he was no fan of sleepless nights, he also enjoyed the quiet that accompanied them, and was especially appreciative of their stillness since becoming Captain. His days were often overly full of demands, queries, paperwork, and endless negotiation with finicky nobles; to have some time to have himself was a profound and rare luxury.

 

Feeling his muscles relax as he finished his drink, he was contemplating some time reading as he waited for the garrison to awake, when his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of someone shouting. All thoughts of relaxation forgotten, Treville placed his empty glass on his desk even as he fluidly rose to his feet, pausing only to collect his weapons and doublet before exiting. From the balcony overlooking the courtyard, he could see several men below, only one of whom was on a horse, but who was being helped to dismount even as he watched.

 

Determining that no immediate threat existed, Treville made his way quickly downstairs, addressing the rider who was now standing beside his mount. “Report,” he barked sharply, sensing that whatever he was about to hear was the news he’d been unknowingly anticipating.

 

Féret straightened instinctively although he kept one arm tucked close to his body and cradled by his other hand. “Sir, we were attacked less than a day’s ride from Paris. We need to get men and supplies and return for the others.” At his commanding officer’s frown, the Musketeer realized his account was less than enlightening and continued. “Porthos and Aramis are both wounded and were unable to ride. Athos and d’Artagnan…” he trailed off, swallowing thickly as he searched for the words to explain. “They fell, Sir, off the edge of a cliff.”

 

Treville’s eyes widened even as he asked, “You mean they’re dead?”

 

“No, Captain,” Féret hurriedly replied. “At least I don’t think so. They landed on a ledge about fifteen feet down, but none of us were able to reach them to check on them.”

 

As the officer processed what he’d been told, another part of his brain was already calculating what would be needed to launch a rescue mission. As things fell into place in his head, he turned to one of the others and ordered, “I need six men, a cart, medical supplies, and several long lengths of rope.” Turning back to Féret, he said, “I need their location and then I want you to head to the infirmary.”

 

“No, Captain, it’ll be easier if I take you back myself,” Féret protested, already reaching for his horse’s reins.

 

Treville caught the Musketeer’s hand and guided it away from the mount, shaking his head as he said, “No, you’ve done enough and I want you to have that arm tended.”

 

The injured man appeared ready to argue, but the officer’s hard look stopped him as he realized that he’d be unable to change the Captain’s mind. “Yes, Sir.”

 

Treville spent the next minutes gathering additional details from Féret, leaving orders with another of his lieutenants in his absence so he could lead the rescue mission himself, and organizing the equipment they’d need based on the description of the terrain and the Musketeers’ injuries. Within a half hour, the group was ready to depart and they set out even though the sky was only beginning to lighten with the promise of dawn. As they rode through the garrison gates, Treville prayed that their mission was a rescue rather than a retrieval of lifeless bodies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the comments and kudos that let me know you're enjoying this fic. I hate to do this, but I need to skip another day as real life again rears its ugly head, which means that the next chapter will be up on Thursday. Thanks as always to AZGirl for her suggestions, which improved this story.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos grimaced as he leaned back against the rock wall to await his turn, his left hand pressed unconsciously to his achy chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience in waiting an extra day for this chapter. Also, my ongoing appreciation to AZGirl for all her help.

At some point during the night, Aramis had succumbed to the persistent ache in his brain that craved sleep, and he’d slumped sideways towards Porthos, eventually coming to rest with his right shoulder and cheek pressed against the cold ground, his face close to the top of his friend’s head. The position could not in any way be considered comfortable, and yet it was a reflection of how poorly the marksman was feeling that he didn’t even notice. As a result, their fire had died down until only a few glowing embers remained, holding the promise of warmth if someone paid attention to the flagging coals and added some fresh kindling.

 

Overnight, the temperature had dropped enough for a layer of dew to settle on everything around them, including the two injured soldiers who remained unaware that they’d made it through the evening hours. High above their heads, a bird cut a path across the rapidly lightening sky, its cry piercing the veil that had wrapped Porthos in its comforting embrace for several hours. He woke with a start, his eyes snapping open even as his limbs jumped. The complaint from his injured leg was immediate and vociferous, making him swallow a groan even as it forced its way up his throat.

 

He bit his lower lip and forced his breaths to remain calm and even, struggling with the throb and heat that his mind connected with an infected wound. Slowly, Porthos rolled his head to the side, managing to avoid startling himself as he realized his face was only inches away from Aramis’ chest. Shifting his head slightly, he was able to follow the line of the marksman’s neck upwards, where his friend’s nose almost touched the top of his own head. He paused there for a moment until his ears detected the medic’s slow, even breaths, confirming that the man was still alive and most likely simply asleep.

 

As the relief of the marksman’s proximity washed over him, he found his body racked by a shiver, realizing a moment later how chilled he felt. He had a vague memory of Aramis making a fire, and it was a fair bet that it had gone out when the medic had fallen asleep. Recognizing the need to move, he steeled himself before pushing up onto his elbows, paying careful attention to his injured leg to keep from jarring it accidently. Resting there momentarily, his eyes confirmed his earlier suspicions, noting that their fire was nearly out.

 

He pushed himself the rest of the way to a sitting position and reached over for the small pile of wood that was left, prodding at the embers with a stick before placing the kindling across the glowing coals. With a few breaths, the fire was coaxed back into life, and Porthos smiled at the perceived warmth of the small flames, even though he knew that there wasn’t much actual heat being given off yet. A few more minutes of careful attention, along with additional wood, and he could feel the warm air dancing lightly across his hands and face.

 

With the fire taken care of, he turned his attention back to his sleeping friend, knowing he’d have to wake the man soon if he didn’t want to risk their situation turning even more awkward than it already was. “Aramis,” the large man called, lying back again and propping himself up on one elbow. “Wake up, Aramis; I need your help.” The marksman was slow to wake, no doubt feeling the full effects of the blow that had robbed him of consciousness for several hours the day prior. Porthos watched as his friend forced gummy eyelids to part, Aramis squinting at him in obvious discomfort.

 

“Morning?” the marksman mumbled unhappily.

 

“Yeah,” Porthos confirmed, pitching his voice lowly in deference to his friend’s fragile skull. “Do you think you can get up?” Aramis raised an eyebrow at the request, the rest of his body remaining still and showing his clear reluctance at the thought of moving. “I need to…” Porthos pointed to another small copse of trees further away. “You know.”

 

Aramis’ entire head felt as though it was encased in mud, but after a few moments, understanding dawned, even as his own body expressed the same growing need. “Right,” the marksman slurred, licking his lips a second later. “Give me a moment,” he said, his words now clearer as his awareness slowly grew. With effort, he pushed himself upwards onto one arm, stopping for several long seconds as his head adjusted to his new position. Porthos watched quietly as his friend’s head hung low towards his chest, the pain of his injury spiking as he moved.

 

“You alright?” Porthos asked, hating that he’d had to ask his friend for help.

 

“Mmm,” Aramis hummed before slowly gaining his feet. His vision was clearer than the day prior, but his head ached abominably, making his stomach queasy as he battled the light-headedness that accompanied the injury he’d sustained.

 

Porthos continued to observe Aramis as the man swayed momentarily before righting himself, closing his eyes for a moment until the pain in his head eased once more. A brief smile flitted across the marksman’s face as he opened his eyes and extended a hand, preparing himself to help the larger man to his feet. “Ready?” he asked.

 

Porthos reached upwards and gripped Aramis’ hand, bracing himself for a moment before pulling himself up. He kept the majority of his weight on his uninjured leg, battling an overwhelming weakness that threatened to take him back to the ground. Aramis shifted position quickly, placing himself beneath his friend’s shoulder to keep Porthos upright. For a moment, the two swayed precariously together, the marksman unprepared for his friend’s sudden loss of strength and balance.

 

Porthos’ head was swimming alarmingly, and a distant part of his brain supplied that he was suffering from blood loss, causing his limbs to tremble and his vision to tunnel dangerously. “Are you alright?” The voice sounded as if it was far away, and it wasn’t until the question was repeated that Porthos recognized it as Aramis’ concerned tone. With a start, he realized that his eyes had closed, and he opened them now, only to find that his face was angled towards the ground. He willed his head upwards as he replied. “Sorry, ‘m fine now.”

 

Aramis merely snorted in reply, even as the larger man took back some of his weight. “Shall we?” Without waiting for a response, the marksman began moving them forward to their destination. Their progress was slow as Porthos battled the weakness in his limbs and the shattering agony that accompanied each step on his wounded leg. Aramis wasn’t faring much better as the ground continued to buck beneath his feet, and the pain in his head spiked with the exertion of moving not only himself but his friend as well.

 

By the time that they reached an appropriate spot, both men were breathing heavily and they stood in place for several moments before Aramis removed Porthos’ arm from his shoulder, leaning him against one of the sturdier trees. “Will you be alright by yourself?” he queried, worried at the sheen of sweat that covered the large man’s face.

 

Porthos sucked in a breath before answering. “Be fine. Besides, this isn’t something I want help with, even if it means falling on my face.”

 

Aramis offered another inelegant snort in reply, but moved a few feet away to take care of his own needs before returning for his friend. The journey back to their previous position was no less difficult, and they barely managed a controlled collapse before their bodies gave out entirely.

 

“Well, that was fun,” Aramis commented once his breathing had returned to normal, a faint grin dancing on his lips as he once more squinted at his friend.

 

This time it was Porthos who snorted, but he couldn’t keep the mirth from his face as his lips quirked upwards in reply. “Shall I go check our saddlebags for breakfast, or check your leg first?” Aramis asked, having noticed the way in which his friend’s hand drifted towards the stab wound.

 

Porthos worried his bottom lip for a moment before he reached a decision. “Leg first.”

 

“Good choice,” Aramis concurred, recalling the red and swollen skin that he’d stitched closed only hours prior.

 

Porthos only nodded in reply, already certain of what the medic would find hidden beneath the bandages. He wasn’t in any rush to have his suspicions confirmed, but expected that Aramis would insist on trying to clean the wound out again, a process that would make his leg burn and have his stomach protesting. As a result, it seemed a wiser choice to complete the task on an empty belly, rather than having to expel everything he’d just eaten if the pain grew too great. With those thoughts at the forefront of his mind, he settled down to watch as Aramis unwound the bandages from his leg and tended to his wound. 

* * *

Treville had no idea what he would find when they finally arrived at the spot where his men had been attacked. Féret’s description of the Musketeers’ injuries, along with Athos’ and d’Artagnan’s position, had caused his imagination to kick into high gear and conjure too many scenarios that ended with the death of everyone concerned. The officer recognized that part of the problem was the weariness that came from a sleepless night, but he also acknowledged that the foursome he was now riding out to rescue seemed inordinately adept at finding trouble. It was this latter thought that had him urging his men to keep up a fast pace, needing to reach Athos and the others as quickly as possible, and regretting his lapse at not having brought a physician along.

 

The sight that greeted him seemed impossibly peaceful; the men who’d died at the Musketeers’ hands were scattered across the impromptu battleground and appeared to be sleeping. That was until one noticed the amount of red and rust-colored browns that painted the lifeless bodies, shattering the initial calmness that the scene presented. Treville and the others who accompanied him slowed immediately, no one speaking as they guided their horses around the slain men. It wasn’t until Treville spotted the small fire ahead that he sped up again, certain that the two men beside it were two of his own.

 

As he arrived, he slipped easily from the saddle, ignoring the stiffness of his muscles to step closer and examine the men who were lying on the ground. Both men’s faces were lax with sleep, but a closer look revealed the fine crinkling of the skin around their eyes, belying the pain that had followed them into unconsciousness. Even more worrying was the sweat that dotted Porthos’ brow, suggesting a greater concern than some type of painful injury. Taking a steadying breath, he made his way closer to Aramis, deciding to try and wake the marksman first since he would no doubt be able to provide the details of both men’s injuries.

 

Crouching down beside the medic, he let a hand rest lightly on the man’s shoulder as he shook him and said, “Aramis, you need to wake up now.”

 

Treville’s request was granted immediately, even though Aramis’ eyes only opened to slits, the man taking several moments to focus on the worried face above him. A smile slowly spread across his features as he spoke, “Captain, I can’t tell you how glad I am that you’re here.”

 

He began to shift immediately and Treville moved to support the marksman until he was sitting upright. Aramis squeezed the bridge of his nose against the throbbing of his head, before dropping the hand to his lap and pinning his commanding officer with a pained stare. “Porthos was stabbed in the leg. I’ve cleaned and stitched the wound, but it’s infected.” He paused then and let his gaze drift towards the edge of the cliff where he’d last seen Athos. He’d wanted to check on the men earlier, but Porthos had resolutely spoken out against the idea, reminding him of how shaky his balance remained due to his head injury. Swallowing thickly, he continued, “Athos and d’Artagnan…” he trailed off as his fears for his friends threatened to overwhelm him.

 

“I know Aramis,” Treville replied, squeezing the other man’s shoulder comfortingly. “Féret explained what happened.” The Captain followed his man’s gaze and motioned towards the spot with his head, indicating to the others to go look for Athos and d’Artagnan. Although he wanted nothing more than to check on their condition himself, he turned his attention back to Aramis. “How are you?”

 

Aramis was tempted to roll his eyes at the question, preferring to focus on the health of his friends rather than himself, but the concern in Treville’s eyes stopped him. “I’m fine, Sir, I just need to know…” he pointed towards the cliff’s edge with a hand, his intention clear even though he hadn’t finished his sentence.

 

“I know,” Treville answered, his voice full of compassion. “But I need to know about _all_ of my men, and that includes you. Féret said that you took a blow to the head?”

 

Aramis was about to repeat his earlier assertion of being fine, but the expression on the Captain’s face stopped him and instead he replied honestly. “Concussion, but I’ll be alright. Just dealing with the usual for now – dizziness, headache, fatigue – you know.”

 

Treville looked at him for several seconds longer as if judging the veracity of what he’d heard before giving a slight nod. “Fair enough. Why don’t you and I check on Porthos while we wait for news about Athos and d’Artagnan.”

 

Both men knew the suggestion was meant to distract them as they waited for word on their other friends, but Aramis gave a slight dip of his chin regardless. Together they shifted their focus to the large man, doing their best to ignore what was happening at the edge of the cliff. 

* * *

Lozé leaned out over the edge of the cliff, his right arm firmly held by Duret, while Trouvé had a hold of the belt at his back. Steadied by the strong grips of his brothers-in-arms, he peered downwards, spotting the two Musketeers immediately about fifteen feet below. He observed them for almost a minute, his eyes shifting from one man to the other, trying to discern the rise and fall of their chests which would confirm the men were alive. Even after he was fairly confident that the men were alive, he continued to watch, until he could say with absolutely certainty that the men below were still breathing.

 

A quick glance to the men who held him communicated his intentions, and the two worked to smoothly pull Lozé back to safety. He gave both men a nod of thanks and made his way directly to where Treville was waiting, the officer no doubt just as anxious as the two men beside him were for news. Stopping smartly before the Captain, he wasted no time in reporting. “Both are alive and currently unconscious or asleep.”

 

Treville didn’t slump in relief the same way that Porthos and Aramis did, but he found himself immediately breathing more easily at the good news. “Is there a safe way that we can reach them?”

 

Lozé’s keen eyes returned to the edge of the cliff, and then scanned the area around them. He quickly came to the conclusion that the sparse trees were too far away to be of any use, and that the men’s rescue would rely completely on the strong arms and broad shoulders of the regiment. “The only option will be for us to haul them up with the ropes.” He paused for a moment, unhappy about the idea of sending any of their group down and adding further weight to the narrow ledge below. “It would be best to try and wake them, rather than sending another person down.”

 

The Captain considered the man’s words, unhappy with the idea of relying on two probably injured men to secure ropes around their bodies, but he recognized the wisdom of Lozé’s suggestion, the man having dealt with similar situations in the past and always offering invaluable advice about how best to proceed. He offered the Musketeer a curt nod as he replied. “We’ll try and wake them and see if they’re able to help themselves.”

 

Treville rose from where he’d been crouched next to Aramis and Porthos, putting a hand on the former man’s shoulder to keep him from following. Catching the medic’s eye he said, “There’s nothing that you can do until they’re back up on solid ground. Best for you to stay here for now.”

 

Aramis’ expression clearly showed his disagreement with the Captain’s suggestion, and he switched his gaze to Porthos, looking for the larger man’s support. “Aramis, the Captain’s right,” Porthos stated, answering his friend’s question before it was voiced. “Let them take care of things and then you can check them over once they’re safe.” The words were spoken softly, but their power wasn’t diminished by the low volume. Aramis’ eyes grew sad, but he reluctantly nodded, Treville giving a nod in return before walking away with Lozé.

 

Porthos’ and Aramis’ eyes followed them, the larger man reaching out to place a hand on the marksman’s forearm, giving it a gentle squeeze as he said, “Don’t worry ‘Mis; they’re in good hands.” Aramis didn’t meet his friend’s eyes as he simply dipped his chin in agreement, wishing more than anything to be a part of the rescue that would now be taking place.

 

At the cliff’s edge, the Musketeers had been busy, unlooping several lengths of rope and creating a makeshift harness out of one. As Treville approached, Duret automatically handed the harness to the Captain, correctly assuming that the man would want to be the one to try and get Athos’ and d’Artagnan’s attention. Slipping the ropes easily around his chest and beneath his arms, Treville stepped closer to the ground’s edge, feeling the men behind him take up the rope’s slack, ensuring he wouldn’t fall.

 

His first glimpse of the men below warmed his heart, unsurprised that Athos would have done everything in his power to comfort his young protégé. A few seconds’ observation confirmed what he’d been told, and he was able to see that both men were breathing, Athos’ chest pushing gently against d’Artagnan’s back and shifting him forward slightly with each inhale. “Athos,” he called, his strong voice cutting eerily through the quiet that surrounded them. He waited for several moments, before he tried again, hoping one or both of the men below would respond.

 

On the small ledge, something tugged at Athos’ awareness, and the sound of someone calling his name had his eyes slowly opening. The memories of the previous day flooded back immediately, and he looked down to find d’Artagnan still slumped against his own chest. The pressure of the young man’s body was uncomfortable, and he shifted it slightly to one side, inhaling with a wince when he was finally able to take a deeper breath. Their hours of inactivity had made a deep ache settle over his entire upper body, and Athos could well imagine how the bruising on his skin must have darkened over night. Even so, he was surprised at the intensity of the throb that emanated from his back, having barely registered the pain the previous day.

 

Awkwardly, his left hand moved to grip d’Artagnan’s wrist, resting there for several seconds until he felt the reassuring thrum of the Gascon’s heartbeat. For a moment, he was overwhelmed by relief, and his head dropped back to rest against the cliff as his eyes slipped closed. Incredibly, they’d both survived the night.

 

“Athos! d’Artagnan! Can either of you hear me?” Athos recognized Treville’s voice as well as the rising panic the tone conveyed. Opening his eyes, he tipped his head back further so he could look upwards, before clearing his throat and replying. “Yes, Captain, I hear you.” His voice was hoarse and his chest protested the amount of air that was needed to shout back, and he frowned slightly at the heaviness that seemed to be pressing against his lungs.

 

“Athos,” Treville called back, the relief obvious in his tone. “It’s good to hear your voice. How bad are your injuries?”

 

The former Comte considered the question for a moment before he replied. “Just a broken arm for me. d’Artagnan,” he paused, swallowing uncomfortably as he remembered their fall. “d’Artagnan took the brunt of it.”

 

“Is it safe to move him?” the Captain asked, deciding not to point out the fact that they really had no choice.

 

Athos’ gaze dipped down to look at the Gascon’s lax face, the young man having so far slept through the entire conversation. “Yes, I believe so.”

 

Above their heads, Treville was conferring with Lozé, the two men agreeing that they should proceed with their plan. As the other Musketeer moved into position, the officer spoke again. “Athos, we’re lowering a rope. I need you to tie it around d’Artagnan so we can pull him up.” Seconds later, the rope came into view and Athos grasped it gratefully, holding it for several seconds as the reality of their rescue fully sunk in.

 

It was a tedious process to get the unconscious Gascon into a makeshift harness, the process further hampered by the fact that Athos only had the use of one arm and that his back vociferously protested every movement he made. He hesitated for a long moment when he’d finished, checking and double-checking his work to ensure the young man would be safe. When he was as certain as he could be that d’Artagnan wouldn’t fall, he reluctantly shifted away from the boy and watched as he was pulled upwards. He released a shuddering exhale as he realized that this was only the first step in their recovery, and while d’Artagnan’s physical ills were serious, this part of their journey would likely be the easiest part. As the Gascon disappeared from view, Athos grimaced as he leaned back against the rock wall to await his turn, his left hand pressed unconsciously to his achy chest.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With a last strangled gasp, the black spots in front of his eyes coalesced into a curtain of darkness, and the last thing he registered was the frantic voice of the medic calling his name.

By the time that Athos was pulled from his precarious perch and onto the safety of the ground above, d’Artagnan had already been moved several feet away. Athos looked over at the young man, vaguely aware that he was being supported by one of his brothers-in-arms, while another removed the rope from around his chest and beneath his arms. As the makeshift harness was pulled free, he found himself stifling a cough, a remote part of his brain noting the pressure that had seemingly settled in his chest.

 

Once the rope had been removed, his feet moved automatically towards the Gascon, the young man lying on the ground with Aramis at his side where the medic was doing a preliminary evaluation of the various injuries d’Artagnan had sustained. Throwing Treville a harried look at the fact that Athos was determined to move, Duret grudgingly continued to support the hurt man, the Captain’s face conveying clearly that there would be no stopping him. The officer followed, leaving the collection of their supplies to the others so that he could hear Aramis’ assessment.

 

Treville was pleased to see that d’Artagnan was awake if not completely aware of his situation. Aramis was speaking with him as his hands skillfully ran over the young man’s limbs and torso in search of injuries. Athos began his descent to the ground as soon as they reached the Gascon’s side, and Duret dutifully supported the former Comte, settling him into a seated position. As Duret removed his hands, Treville sank down behind his lieutenant, bracing Athos’ back. The comforting words that the Captain murmured in Athos’ ear had the latter man sinking gratefully against his commander’s chest. The action pulled a faint smile from Porthos, who lay on the ground just a few feet away, his back propped against someone’s saddle. Treville caught the large man’s expression and his lips turned upwards in return, pleased that their stoic friend had allowed the small act of comfort.

 

“He’s broken some ribs on his right side,” Athos stated as he reported what he’d found earlier to Aramis. “I think his right knee is sprained, and he complained of pain in his left shoulder.” He paused to draw another breath before continuing. “He was confused when he first woke, and has been in and out of consciousness.” His last words were spoken softly, the few sentences having left him feeling slightly breathless.

 

Aramis didn’t look up from his assessment, but gave a slight dip of his chin in thanks, focusing on the areas that the older man had highlighted. The others looked on in silence, waiting for the medic to share his evaluation with the rest of them. When he was done, Aramis rested his hand lightly on d’Artagnan’s arm, as he looked up to address Treville. “Concussion, broken ribs, a bad sprain to his knee as Athos suggested,” he threw the man a quick glance of appreciation, “and strained muscles in his shoulder.”

 

The medic’s gaze shifted slightly to Athos, and he squinted to sharpen his still-wavering vision to confirm what he thought he was seeing. Athos’ face was paler than normal and his breathing seemed laboured, to the point that Aramis wondered if the mere act of inhaling and exhaling was causing his friend pain. “Athos?” he asked as he pushed carefully to his feet, his tone tentative and tinged with just a hint of worry.

 

The older man met his gaze and watched as the medic crossed over to him and knelt down, placing a hand gently on his shoulder. “Are you alright?”

 

Athos rolled his eyes, as if to say, “I’m fine,” but Aramis didn’t miss the fact that his friend had chosen a non-verbal reply. Sensing the medic’s rising concern, he pulled a deeper breath, wincing as he did so. “I’m fine,” he pushed out, steadfastly ignoring the way his chest was aching.

 

Aramis’ eyes narrowed, but he said nothing, simply reaching for the older man’s broken arm and tenderly examining it as best he could through the heavy leather of Athos’ doublet. He was about to state that he would need the arm out of the garment’s sleeve, when a new sound reached his ears, causing his eyes to dart swiftly to Athos’ face. The former Comte’s expression was now shaded in fear as he struggled to breath through slightly-parted lips. His face was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, belying the effort it was taking to complete the simple act.

 

Aramis reached at once for the fastenings on Athos’ doublet, saying as he did so, “We need to get this off him.” He wasn’t sure what was causing his friend’s difficulties, but knew with certainty that there was something more wrong. Athos didn’t say a word as he was manhandled from the garment, his eyes never leaving the medic’s as he pleaded with his friend to figure out what was wrong. The pressure he’d felt on his chest earlier now seemed to have grown exponentially, to the point that every breath was painfully more difficult than the last.

 

He was beginning to feel light-headed, and his panic increased with the sensation. The feeling blossomed until he was panting, each shallow inhalation providing him with too little precious oxygen. His body was beginning to grow heavy and his vision was tunneling. Athos knew that he was close to passing out, but he fought against the pull of blackness, fearful that he might not wake again if he let go. He fumbled his left hand towards Aramis, begging with his eyes for his friend to help him, but the action was too much from his oxygen-deprived body and his fingers merely twitched before falling still. With a last strangled gasp, the black spots in front of his eyes coalesced into a curtain of darkness, and the last thing he registered was the frantic voice of the medic calling his name. 

* * *

All eyes were on Aramis as he worked to free Athos from the restricting leather of his doublet, while attempting to limit the jostling of the man’s broken arm. It was unlikely that the garment was the cause of his friend’s issues, but the medic needed to see underneath it in order to diagnose the cause of the symptoms he was now witnessing. The Captain helped as much as he could, steadying Athos’ body, which had become increasingly limp, as the marksman pulled the doublet away and tossed it carelessly onto the ground. His hands went immediately to Athos’ chest, palpating both sets of ribs, believing that they were the most likely reason that the older man couldn’t seem to draw a full breath.

 

When the ribs on both sides of Athos’ chest held firm, Aramis rocked back on his heels for a moment, a deep frown on his face. Several seconds passed as the older man’s breaths continued to stutter and falter, and Aramis threw his friend a contrite look as he racked his brain for additional ideas. As Athos’ head lolled to one side, now fully supported by Treville’s hold, the medic surged forward, this time reaching around to press against the ribs at Athos’ back, almost immediately feeling the tell-tale give of cracked or broken bones.

 

Cursing, he pulled Athos closer, settling the man against his own chest as the Captain looked on in confusion. Aramis ignored how Athos’ head tipped forward to rest in the crook of his shoulder, resolutely pushing away the spike of fear that threatened to choke him. Instead, the medic pulled the injured man’s shirt upwards, revealing a startling array of deep bruising, the bulk of which centred across the middle of his back. As Aramis noted the damage, he swore again, before releasing a deep breath and allowing the shirt to fall back.

 

Without warning, he pushed Athos’ still form back into Treville’s arms. The medic’s hand reached for his friend’s chin, lifting it to find a complete lack of awareness in Athos’ eyes. Moments later, the injured man’s left hand twitched weakly before he gave a frightening gasp. In the next heartbeat, Athos’ eyes had fallen closed and Aramis was searching frantically for a heartbeat. “Athos? Athos, open your eyes.” No matter how he pleaded, the injured man refused to wake, but at least his heart was still beating. With that discovery, Aramis leaned back shakily, his trembling hands dropping to his lap as he announced, “Still alive.”

 

He took several steadying breaths before he was able to look up. Treville was clearly waiting for him to report, while both Porthos’ and d’Artagnan’s faces conveyed the amount of fear in their hearts over what they’d just witnessed. Aramis inhaled shakily as he explained. “I believe he bruised his lungs in the fall. The result,” he trailed off for a moment, swallowing down his own trepidation before finishing. “The result is that he’s having difficulties breathing.”

 

From their expressions, the medic could tell that they were all looking to him for some sort of cure, but it was the Captain who voiced the question. “What do we do?”

 

Aramis dropped his head for a moment to examine his hands, before meeting the officer’s gaze. “Nothing. There’s nothing we can do except pray that he’s strong enough to hold on while his lungs heal.” In his periphery, he saw d’Artagnan attempting to rise, but Duret had at some point appeared at the young man’s side and prevented him from lifting anything more than his shoulders from the ground. Noting the attempt, Aramis returned his attention to Treville. “We should get going. The sooner we’re back at the garrison, the better.” That Aramis felt entirely out of his depth, and craved the help of a properly-trained physician remained unsaid, but by the determined look on the Captain’s face, the medic was certain that message had been understood.

 

In that moment, Treville was grateful for the discipline of the men he served with, noting that those not engaged in the rescue had busied themselves with the task of checking on the horses and collecting weapons, allowing the group to depart as soon as the injured men were ready to travel. The officer turned in the direction of the others, calling out to Lozé. “Get everything packed. We leave in fifteen minutes.” 

* * *

Their journey back to Paris was nerve-racking, Athos frequently startling himself awake because he felt as though he was suffocating, only to pant helplessly through his wakefulness until his oxygen-starved brain once more shut down. Each time it happened, Aramis would coach his friend with soft, even words, reminding him that he wasn’t actually choking and that he’d be able to get enough air if he just focused on taking slow, regular inhales. Athos would never complain about how scared he felt or how painful the medic’s request was, but the grip he maintained on Aramis’ hand conveyed the message more clearly than any words could.

 

Porthos and d’Artagnan occupied the other end of the wagon, allowing them an unimpeded view of Athos’ struggles. Their sense of helplessness was fueled by the fact that they could do nothing but watch on in silence and pray that each breath would not be their friend’s last. To their chagrin, Aramis had ordered pain draughts for them before they’d departed, leaving them feeling foggy as they transitioned frequently between awareness and sleep. Despite their desire to stay awake and watch the drama unfolding across from them, their bodies defeated them, and they often found themselves startling awake at the sound of Athos’ desperate attempts to gain air.

 

Even with the medicine that Aramis had forced on them, the injured men were miserable, every lurch of the wagon reawakening their hurts. Porthos had been spared the numerous bruises that painted d’Artagnan’s body after his fall, but he was now battling an infection in his leg, leaving him feeling achy while also waffling between too hot and unbearably cold. But neither spoke of their ills, not daring for a moment to disturb Aramis’ concentration, as the medic did everything in his power to keep Athos with them.

 

It was well after midnight when they rode through the garrison gates. Treville had again acted with forethought and dispatched one of the men to ride ahead and summon the doctor, who was waiting for them when they arrived. Porthos and d’Artagnan were removed first, each man aided by two others at their sides, and the latter man kept his head down to avoid the hostile glares he was receiving from his helpers. They were deposited in the infirmary, followed several minutes later by Aramis and the others, and watched as Athos was laid carefully on a bed, his back propped up by a mountain of blankets and pillows.

 

d'Artagnan’s heart ached as he noticed the amount of men hovering around Athos’ bed, all of them apparently concerned about his mentor’s health. The Gascon had been placed closer to the other end of the room, and the three beds that separated him from the older man were simply a physical manifestation of the distance that had developed between them. For a while, he observed Aramis and the physician tending to Athos, but it was difficult to see past the backs of the other men. He glanced enviously at Porthos, the man having been placed in a bed directly across from their friend, and the void between himself and the others seemed to grow inconceivably larger.

 

With a force of will, he closed his eyes, and tried to tune out the sounds of worried conversation to his right. Eventually, he knew that the doctor would turn his attentions to both himself and Porthos, but until then, there was nothing he could do. Releasing a shaky breath, he swiped a hand angrily at the single tear that had escaped his eyes, and prayed for morning to come swiftly so he could finally put an end to the farce that his time as a Musketeer had become. 

* * *

When he awoke, it was still dark outside, and the infirmary was lit by several candles, although the majority were centred around Athos’ bed. d’Artagnan carefully pushed himself upwards, biting his lip at the residual soreness in his left shoulder and the sharp bite of pain from his broken ribs. Despite the doctor’s orders to stay in bed, the Gascon let his legs drop over the side of the cot, wincing as his right foot touched the ground, igniting the fire in his injured knee.

 

He sat there for several long moments, allowing his body to adjust to the new position as he struggled to get his breathing to settle. When it had, he realized that he was still hearing someone’s harsh inhales, and his eyes lifted upwards from the floor and landed on his mentor’s pale face. The man was still with them, but also still fighting for every precious bit of air. He knew from his own time with the physician that there was nothing they could do for Athos, and they would have to pray that he was strong enough to survive his ordeal.

 

d'Artagnan had never heard of bruised lungs, but the doctor had nodded sagely as he’d bound the Gascon’s ribs, recalling a few others over the course of his career who’d suffered a similar affliction; d’Artagnan was too much of a coward to ask if those men had survived. Instead, he’d stoically allowed his injuries to be tended while his gaze continued to drift over to Athos’ bed, where the older man fought for his life. When the physician had finished, and helped the Gascon lay back, he’d gently patted the young man’s shoulder and assured him that both of his friends were fighting. The comment had d’Artagnan’s eyes snapping guiltily to Porthos’ still form, the larger man well and truly in the grip of a fever that the medics were still trying to contain. He’d nodded automatically and the elderly doctor had drifted away, leaving d’Artagnan alone with his thoughts and his guilt, his concussed brain certain that he was somehow responsible for his friends’ worrying states.

 

Gritting his teeth, d’Artagnan pushed himself to his feet, wobbling for a moment before regaining his balance. Limping heavily, he shuffled to Porthos’ bed, looking down at his friend for a minute and noting how uncomfortable the man looked. Moving gingerly, he took the cloth from the large man’s forehead and re-wet it in the bowl next to the bed, wringing it out before replacing it. Porthos sighed softly as some portion of his brain registered the cool sensation, and the Gascon’s lips quirked upwards in a faint smile.

 

Turning awkwardly, he shuffled next to Athos’ bed, moving to the right side since Aramis slept in another chair on the older man’s left. He sagged gratefully into the chair that sat there and let his gaze drift over the two sleeping men. The medic’s face wore a frown, even in sleep, and it was obvious that he’d pushed himself too hard after the concussion he’d suffered. Still, he’d refused to leave Athos’ side and was now uncomfortably curled in his seat, arms crossed and his chin dipping forward to almost touch his chest. d’Artagnan momentarily considered waking the man, but then decided against it, worried that his friends would see the act as another mistake when the marksman was so exhausted.

 

Instead, he turned his attention to Athos. The older man was clearly in distress and each inhale was its own, hard-fought battle. Sweat dotted his friend’s brow, and wrinkles around the man’s eyes reflected the amount of pain he was experiencing. d’Artagnan had asked the physician about that earlier and had been told that they’d been afraid to give him anything overly strong to ease his discomfort, lest it make breathing even more difficult. The Gascon hadn’t known whether to be angry at that, or grateful that the men tending to his mentor had been experienced enough to avoid something potentially harmful.

 

As he continued to silently observe Athos, d’Artagnan cast his mind back to the time they’d spent outside in the elements, going over every detail that his fuzzy brain could recall in an effort to identify what he’d done wrong this time. He had no doubt that his friends would find fault in his actions, from the moment when he’d been unable to save Athos from falling, to the fact that he’d been unaware of how dire his mentor’s state really was. Instead, he vividly recalled the fear and deep disappointment that had accompanied his inability to pull Athos to safety; his reticence to converse with Athos when the older man had pressed him for a promise that he was confident he’d be unable to keep; and his dependence on Athos as they’d waited on the ledge for rescue while d’Artagnan’s body was encompassed in a full-body ache that made movement and thinking almost impossible. How could he not have realized earlier how badly Athos had been hurt?

 

“Stop thinking so hard, d’Artagnan.” The voice startled him and he winced as he jumped, the inadvertent action pulling painfully on his injured body. “You should be in bed,” Aramis continued, his arms still crossed, but his eyes open and firmly pinned on the Gascon.

 

d’Artagnan searched for the words to explain his presence at Athos’ side, but when nothing came to mind, he simply offered a one-sided shrug. When it became clear that the Gascon had nothing to say and no intentions of moving, Aramis decided to fill the silence. “He’ll be alright, you know. Athos is much too stubborn to let something like this end his life.” He paused and waited for a reply, but the young man’s gaze remained fixed on Athos’ face.

 

“That was a brave thing you did,” Aramis offered, and was surprised by the look of shame that clouded his friend’s features. The marksman kept his expression neutral, his mind spinning with the question of how such a courageous act could be associated with such negative emotions. A moment later, he struck upon the likely answer, recalling all of the discord that had recently plagued their foursome, as well as the week of punishment that the young man had so recently endured. While he hadn’t had an opportunity to get any details about that week, he could well guess how the animosity towards the Gascon might have been enacted.

 

“d’Artagnan, I want you to listen to me,” Aramis stated, waiting until the young man’s eyes finally lifted to meet his own. “Regardless of what you think, you’ve done nothing wrong, and when Athos awakes, he’ll tell you the same.” He paused a moment before asking, “Do you believe me?”

 

Whether it was the earnest expression on Aramis’ face, or simply the knowledge that the other man wouldn’t let things drop until d’Artagnan agreed, he eventually gave a small nod of his head. “Good,” Aramis dipped his chin in reply. Sensing that the young man was in no mood for conversation, he raised his weary body from the chair and carefully stretched. “I’m going to go outside for a while to clear my head. If you need me, just call – I won’t be far.”

 

At d’Artagnan’s acknowledging nod, the medic checked briefly on Porthos and then let himself out of the dimly lit room, leaving the young man alone at his mentor’s side. He had no idea how long he sat there, soaking in the quiet, until Athos suddenly broke the stillness with a painful-sounding cough. It was clear that he was struggling for air, and his upper body shifting suddenly forward as his good hand clawed at his chest, the fear of suffocation shining brightly in his eyes. d’Artagnan surged forward at once, catching his mentor and stopping his forward momentum so that he wouldn’t tip off the narrow cot. Gently, he pushed Athos back against the mountain of pillows, before pulling his hand back, suddenly aware that his touch would likely be unwelcome.

 

Athos’ eyes searched for his, and while his lungs rebelled, he also pleaded silently for help, his trembling hand reaching for d’Artagnan’s. The Gascon stared at it in shock, afraid that anything he’d do would further hurt the man he loved like a brother, no matter what had passed between them. “d’Artagnan,” Athos voice was soft and breathless, but still powerful enough to command the young man’s attention. The Gascon’s gaze moved upwards to Athos’ face, and the other man looked pointedly as his outstretched hand, trying to communicate silently what he couldn’t verbalize.

 

d’Artagnan swallowed as he watched his mentor’s hand continue to shake, the man’s strength quickly waning. Another moment of contemplation passed while the expression on Athos’ face turned more desperate, and the Gascon found he could no longer deny his friend the comfort of his touch. He reached for Athos’ hand and squeezed it firmly, the relief on the other man’s face palpable as his breathing seemed to ease.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to AZGirl for her invaluable help with this chapter. Just a reminder as well that I won't be posting tomorrow (Saturday) and the next chapter will be up on Sunday. Thanks for reading!


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I bet you didn’t know, that as a young recruit, Treville set his regiment’s kitchen on fire. Almost the entire thing had to be rebuilt, and yet here he is today, Captain of the Musketeers.”

d’Artagnan had remained at Athos’ side until the sun came up and brightened the infirmary with its warmth. By then, his entire body was a mass of pain, and the Gascon wasn’t certain that he’d be able to move on his own. He recognized that he should have gone back to his bed a long time ago, but Athos’ hand hadn’t moved from his own, and each time the older man had awakened as he struggled to breathe, his panic had seemed to lessen with the knowledge that d’Artagnan was at his side. The young man was somewhat confused by the reaction, unable to reconcile his mentor’s earlier behaviour with the decidedly warmer sentiment now being displayed.

 

It was possible, he mused, that Athos was simply grateful to have someone comfort him during a time that had to be incredibly frightening, the thought of fighting for every inhale making d’Artagnan shudder. While his logic seemed sound, and he accepted that his friend’s current condition would be enough to make any man change his ways, some instinct inside him railed against the idea. _“Head over heart, d’Artagnan.”_ The words echoed in his weary, concussed brain, and he gave a minute shake of his head, sensing that the older man’s sage advice did not apply in the current situation. Rather, it was his heart that suggested that things weren’t nearly as desperate as his reasoning proposed, and for the first time in weeks, the Gascon experienced the first stirrings of hope that things might yet be resolved.

 

The gentle swing of the door behind him announced the arrival of someone new, and d’Artagnan waited for the person to announce themselves as he listened to the footsteps grow nearer. “How has he been?” Aramis asked softly, retaking his earlier position on Athos’ left side. The medic had been in an out of the room all night, most often sitting at Porthos’ bedside and allowing d’Artagnan some modicum of privacy during his vigil. The Gascon appreciated Aramis’ consideration more than he could express, and realized with a start that the marksman’s absence at Athos’ side indicated a level of trust that d’Artagnan believed had been lost.

 

Flushing slightly at the realization, he dipped his head for a moment before clearing his throat so he could reply. “No change.”

 

Aramis nodded, seeming unsurprised as he pulled the blanket covering Athos higher to cover more of the man’s chest. “Porthos’ fever is improving. It seems that opening up and cleaning the wound has had the desired effect,” the medic stated, his gaze now on the exhausted and rumpled form of the Gascon.

 

Guiltily, d’Artagnan realized that he hadn’t asked about the other man, and he felt any possible gains made in restoring their friendship evaporate. Stumbling over his words, he finally managed a reply, “Good, that’s really good.”  

 

As if sensing that the young man was beginning to pull away from them again, Aramis said, “It’s alright you know.” At the Gascon’s questioning gaze, he went on. “That you hadn’t thought to ask about Porthos. You’re allowed to be worried about Athos, and I suspect that you’re feeling pretty awful yourself.” The last words were delivered with a soft smile, and d’Artagnan found himself offering a slight nod in reply, beginning to feel progressively worse the longer he sat there.

 

Again, the medic demonstrated his mind-reading abilities by standing and coming around to gently remove Athos’ hand from the Gascon’s, and then carefully pulling the young man to his feet. d’Artagnan’s head swam with the change in position, the throbbing in his skull escalating with the movement, but Aramis’ steady presence coached him through it until the pain and threatening blackness receded. They made their way towards d’Artagnan’s bed, the marksman stopping after only a few steps as he frowned in consternation, mumbling, “That can’t be right.” Instead of being led back to the cot he’d previously occupied, the Gascon found himself in the bed next to Athos, and he swallowed thickly around the lump in his throat at the medic’s kindness.

 

Settling back, d’Artagnan sighed gratefully, his body relaxing without thought and unable to remain awake no matter how badly he wanted to. As his eyes slipped closed, he could feel the blanket being pulled to his chin, the medic ordering softly, “Sleep, my friend. It’s my turn to watch over you.” The words were incredibly familiar and comforting, and the Gascon’s awareness slipped away a moment later. 

* * *

A week had passed since their rescue from the cliff that had nearly claimed their lives. Two days prior, when it became clear that his fever would not be returning and he’d begun to eat small meals in order to regain some of his lost strength, Porthos had been allowed to return to his room. The truth was that Athos and d’Artagnan were also ready to be released back to their own accommodations, but the older man was unwilling to be separated from his protégé. He’d wanted to invite the Gascon back to his apartments to convalesce, but wasn’t confident that his offer would be accepted. As a result, he’d asked both Aramis and the physician to keep them in the infirmary instead, guaranteeing that they wouldn’t be apart and that d’Artagnan would not have an opportunity to resign his commission as he’d intended.

 

Athos recognized that it was only a temporary measure, but until the young man opened up enough to continue the conversation they’d begun on the cliff, he was willing to do whatever it took to prevent his friend from making a hasty and foolish decision. So, instead, they were trapped inside the walls of the infirmary, neither man truly strong enough to go outside on their own, and d’Artagnan not confident enough to venture out where the accusing eyes of his tormentors awaited. The result had been a sullen and quiet Gascon, so unlike the man that Athos had grown to know and love that his heart ached.

 

His thoughts were interrupted by a strong coughing fit that had him nearly doubled over with its intensity. The frequent and painful spasms were an unpleasant remnant of the condition that had nearly taken his life, and had quite literally stolen his breath for the first few days after their return to Paris. Although he no longer felt continuously lightheaded and dizzy from a lack of oxygen, he still tired easily and had to pause often during conversations; it was just another factor that delayed the much-needed discussion between himself and the Gascon.

 

It had been more than a day since Athos had felt the fear of suffocation as his chest pushed against his damaged ribs. As his lungs had begun to heal, the frequency of his panicked bouts had diminished, but this particular fit had the familiar anxiety blossoming in his chest as his spasming lungs forced air out, but allowed almost none in. His expression must have reflected his growing alarm as, moments later, he found d’Artagnan beside him, the Gascon having dragged himself from his bed to sit at Athos’ hip. The young man was coaching him to slow down his breathing, and as Athos slowly managed to follow his friend’s directions, he became aware of his hand against d’Artagnan’s chest, where he received a physical reminder of the pattern of breathing he was being told to emulate.

 

When he could once again breathe freely, Athos gave a dip of his chin. “Thank you,” he said, his voice hoarse and still soft, but his words clear nonetheless.

 

d’Artagnan let go of Athos’ hand where it still pressed against his chest as he murmured a reply. “You’re welcome.”

 

The assistance the Gascon had provided over the past week had become routine, but the first time Athos’ had struggled, the young man had seemed reluctant to help. Despite the fact that there had been no one else around, the older man could clearly recall the look of uncertainty on his friend’s face as he decided whether or not to act. The memory had Athos curious, and without further consideration, he voiced the question at the forefront of his thoughts. “Why did you hesitate to help me that first time?”

 

By the flash of uncertainty that appeared on d’Artagnan’s face, it was clear that he knew exactly what the older man was asking. The Gascon dipped his head downwards, suddenly finding his lap extremely interesting, and Athos fought the urge to speak as he waited for the other man to answer. It took several minutes, but finally the older man’s patience was rewarded. “I wasn’t sure if…” d’Artagnan trailed off and bit his lip, his gaze momentarily skipping away before returning to Athos. “I didn’t know if you would want me to. If I still had the right.” The Gascon’s words began to tumble forth more quickly, as he distractedly waved with one hand. “You know, after everything that’s happened. All the mistakes I’ve made, I…” The flow of words stopped abruptly and d’Artagnan swallowed with difficulty, his volume dropping as he finished. “I didn’t want to hurt you and make things worse.”

 

Athos’ stomach dropped at the heartbreaking admission, promising himself in that moment that he would do whatever was necessary to restore the Gascon’s faith in both himself and their friendship. “d’Artagnan, I know that you would never intentionally hurt me.” He paused to take a breath and the younger man took the opportunity to respond.

 

“But that doesn’t mean it won’t happen anyway. Just look at everyone I hurt with my stupid mistakes,” he finished, his eyes dropping in time with the slump of his shoulders.

 

“d’Artagnan, look at me,” Athos ordered, his voice quiet but firm. When he once more had his protégé’s attention, he went on. “I need to tell you something and you must promise not to interrupt.” He paused again, waiting until he received a reluctant nod in reply. He didn’t begin to speak immediately, however, taking a moment to consider his words since he knew he still wasn’t fit enough for a long, drawn-out conversation. “It is true that we are judged by our actions rather than our intentions, and the consequences of yours have been concerning as of late.” Ignoring the way that d’Artagnan winced at his words, Athos pressed on. “However, I find it impossible not to consider your intentions, since I know that you would never do anything to harm any one of us. I apologize for ever leading you to believe otherwise.”

 

The Gascon’s eyes were wide as he listened, and it was obvious that the young man wanted to protest. When Athos stayed silent, he took the opportunity to say, “But, Athos, you did get hurt – all of you did.”

 

The older man nodded, albeit reluctantly, and then asked, “Do you remember when Aramis decided to go off with a lady, while at the same time Porthos was setting up a bet that Aramis could outshoot any man in the tavern willing to challenge him? Porthos lost his entire purse that night to the wagers made against Aramis, but he didn’t hold a grudge, did he?” d’Artagnan shook his head in agreement. “And do you remember when my horse shied and I ended up knocking Aramis off his mount before I could regain control of mine? I swear he almost shed a tear when his hat was crushed beneath him in the fall,” he stated, a fond smile on his face. The Gascon still seemed hesitant, but Athos sensed that he was making progress. “And I bet you didn’t know, that as a young recruit, Treville set his regiment’s kitchen on fire. Almost the entire thing had to be rebuilt, and yet here he is today, Captain of the Musketeers.”

 

“No,” d’Artagnan countered in wide-eyed disbelief.

 

Athos found his lips quirking in amusement once more as he nodded. “Yes. It cost the regiment so much money to make alternate arrangements for meals and to rebuild that there was no money to pay anyone for over a month.”

 

Part of the Gascon wondered if what he was hearing could possibly be true, while another reminded him that Athos was an honorable man and unlikely to lie to him. Before he could pursue the line of thought any further, Athos began to speak again. “d’Artagnan, my point is that we’ve all made mistakes. Some are more _unfortunate_ in their ramifications than others, but it is nothing that can’t be overcome.” He fell silent then, allowing the young man to process what he’d heard, while at the same time praying that it had been enough to forestall any action to resign.

 

Eventually, d’Artagnan locked his eyes with Athos, asking the man silently to once more confirm that what he’d shared was true, and the older man dipped his chin in reply. With a nod in return, the Gascon had made his decision. “Alright, I won’t try to resign – for now.” Holding up a hand to prevent any argument from Athos, he went on. “I still need to speak with the others and ensure they feel the same way.”

 

“Very well,” Athos allowed, knowing already what Porthos and Aramis would say. The Gascon returned to his bed, and the older man reclined more fully into the pillows at his back, his mind wandering to the others’ current activities. While d’Artagnan had slept the previous night, the three friends had talked in hushed tones, discussing how they would go about investigating the cowardly attack on the Gascon, which had begun with the fouling of his water. Athos was certain that, within a few days, they would have the truth of what had transpired, and be able to clear the young man of any wrongdoing, at least as it related to that mission. Hopefully, it would be enough for the others in the regiment to begin forgiving the Gascon, and Athos believed it might also reveal a new target for everyone’s animosity. 

* * *

Both men slept better that night than they had in the week prior, their conversation from the previous day already beginning to heal the rift that had developed between them. Aramis and Porthos also showed up to visit, and d’Artagnan took the opportunity to follow through on his words to Athos, wanting to confirm that there were no hard feelings between himself and their other two friends.

 

In the end, the conversation between the four of them was anticlimactic. Based on the time spent together during their convalescence, d’Artagnan was fairly confident that Aramis held no ill will towards him. All it took was for a knowing look to pass between the two of them, and for Aramis to grin broadly, providing confirmation of what d’Artagnan already knew in his heart. As for Porthos, he only allowed a few words to pass between them before abandoning speech altogether and simply gathering the younger man in a strong hug. The embrace communicated everything that needed to be said, and d’Artagnan revelled in its warmth, neither man in a hurry to pull away from the other.

 

Afterwards, Aramis and Porthos seated themselves comfortably at the ends of Athos’ and d’Artagnan’s beds, as the former man made an announcement. “Now that we’ve got that out of the way, I think it’s past time that both of you are released from the infirmary. I’m certain you’ll be far more comfortable in your own beds.”

 

Athos visibly blanched at the medic’s words, having been unprepared to hear them. Aramis allowed a grin to appear as he continued. “Of course, you’ll still need to be checked a couple times each day, and it would be easier if you remained together…” He trailed off, pointedly looking at the older man.

 

Athos needed no further prompting as he said, “d’Artagnan, why don’t you come stay with me until you’re fully recovered. For Aramis’ sake, of course,” he hastily added.

 

The Gascon couldn’t keep the grin off his face as he replied. “You’re sure it’s no bother?” The mischievous glint in the young man’s eye settled Athos’ anxiety as he saw the return of the bond they’d shared.

 

With a smile on his lips, he answered, “No bother at all.”

 

“Well that’s settled,” Porthos stated, his grin outshining the ones on all his friends’ faces. “Let’s get you out of here and tonight we’ll all have dinner together.” His gaze turned meaningfully to Athos as he said, “We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

 

The Gascon missed the unspoken message, but Athos understood it just fine. With a nod, he agreed, “I look forward to it.” As Athos and d’Artagnan readied themselves for their departure from the infirmary, the older man’s mind raced in anticipation of the information the other two had secured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for being patient and waiting an extra day for this chapter. For better or for worse, it's birthday season for our family, which has made things busier than normal, and means one more delay before the end of this story is posted. The next (and last) part will be up on Tuesday. Thanks to AZGirl for all of her help with this fic.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It seems that Paseur and Cellier were not only cowards, but stupid, as well."

They’d spent a lazy afternoon together at Athos’ apartments. d’Artagnan had slept for a couple of hours after lunch, though he was loath to admit he was still tired and suffered from occasional headaches that were so intense he could barely move. Aramis had assured him that they would ease over time as the effects of his concussion diminished, but the Gascon was far from patient with the reminders of his infirmity. Fortunately, his other injuries were healing and he could walk relatively well, albeit with a slight limp, his knee only bothering him after being on his feet for longer periods of time. His shoulder was nearly healed also, and if not for his ribs, he would have probably been back on light duty by now.

 

Athos faced a similar recovery period, and despite chafing at the imposed rest, he reminded himself that some good had come of their confinement – they’d all finally spoken about what had happened, and the older man was now comfortable that all thoughts of resigning his commission had left d’Artagnan’s head. That didn’t mean that everything was fine, with many in the regiment still blaming the Gascon for what had happened, but Athos was certain the news they’d hear later in the evening would go far to change that.

 

Aramis and Porthos had also been busy, despite the fact that both men were also still healing from their own wounds. In the end, it meant that Porthos did a great deal of glaring, while Aramis wheedled, pressed, and ultimately threatened anyone and everyone who might have even the slightest bit of information to share. While no one had initially believed that any of the Inseparables was wiling to use physical force to uncover the truth of d’Artagnan’s earlier misfortune, that confidence had been shaken when Treville had returned, stunned and furious, with two of his best men in critical condition. Although all of his charges were healing, the Captain’s temper remained and made regular appearances, leaving the rest of the regiment on pins and needles as they waited for something to give.

 

No one seemed outwardly apologetic that d’Artagnan had had to endure the informal punishment of his peers, with none willing to admit their actions, lest they become the next focus of Treville’s wrath. Despite that, and with lose under scrutiny happily pointing the finger of accusation elsewhere, it took relatively little time and effort to discover the trail that led to the men who’d orchestrated d’Artagnan’s illness and subsequent attack.

 

That night, Aramis and Porthos arrived with dinner and two unexpected guests – the Captain and Serge. All of them had their hands full, bearing a hearty stew, loaves of fresh bread, and several bottles of wine. If Athos was surprised by the arrival of so many people, he hid it well, while d’Artagnan’s mouth fell open and it took him several moments to compose himself enough to greet Treville and the old cook. With practiced ease, three-quarters of the Inseparables laid out the food and poured the wine, while Serge further surprised the Gascon by enveloping him in a brief hug. As the young man hesitantly returned the embrace, the cook whispered in his ear, “It’s good to see you back on your feet.” d’Artagnan merely dipped his head in thanks, trying to hide the blush that had spread over his face at the other man’s kind words.

 

As Serge moved away to help the others, Treville stepped forward and extended his hand, oddly echoing Serge’s sentiment as he gripped the Gascon’s forearm for a moment. “It’s good to see you looking so well, d’Artagnan. I trust that you’ll be back on duty soon.”

 

The young man’s expression clouded for a moment, as his insecurity rose at the thought of once more returning to stand side-by-side with his brothers-in-arms. Luckily, Aramis had overheard the comment and came to stand behind the Gascon, clapping him lightly on the back as he said, “Back to light duty only, I think, along with Athos and Porthos.” The idea of being on light duty with his friends buoyed d’Artagnan and he managed a soft smile of gratitude.

 

“Come and eat while everything’s still warm,” the cook’s voice called, and the men gathered around Athos’ table, taking seats as they dug into the food. Their conversation remained light for several minutes until they’d all made good inroads on their meals. Abandoned by his usual patience, Athos finally caught Aramis’ and Porthos’ eyes and said, “I understand you were busy while we were languishing in the infirmary. Care to share?”

 

Treville’s and Serge’s gazes also shifted to the two men, even though the former already knew what they were all about to hear. Porthos and Aramis communicated silently through a look, before turning back to the others. The larger man put his spoon down and cleared his throat, taking a quick swallow of his wine before he began. “d’Artagnan, I understand that you were sick shortly after departing Paris.” There was no question in Porthos’ tone and the Gascon merely ducked his head momentarily in discomfort, still embarrassed by what he’d endured.

 

“You had no control over what must have been a very uncomfortable experience,” Aramis stated, immediately reading the expression on their friend’s face. “Someone had added spindleberries to your water skin. It causes some very unpleasant effects including vomiting and loose bowels.” Athos threw the medic a glare as he was about to spoon another bite of stew into his mouth, and the marksman offered a contrite grin in reply as he said, “Sorry.”

 

“Are you saying that someone intentionally made me sick?” d’Artagnan asked, his meal know lying forgotten in front of him.

 

Porthos gave a slow nod. “They knew that you’d be distracted and too weak to fight back, when the others found you.”

 

Aramis took up the tale again as the larger man pulled a bite of bread from one of the loaves. “The men are known to the Musketeers, and have been involved in some petty crimes, including theft and tavern brawls, but for some reason, they have always managed to escape punishment.”

 

“Turns out that was because of their _benefactors_ ,” Porthos spat out the last word in obvious distaste.

 

“Garon?” Athos asked, recalling his earlier conversation with the cowardly man.

 

Aramis gave a shake of his head as he replied, “Paseur.” Athos’ eyebrow rose while d’Artagnan’s expression clouded further, hearing just how angry the other men in the regiment had been with him. While no one had been shy about throwing disparaging comments his way or sabotaging his work, this was the first instance of which he was aware in which someone had actually tried to harm him in retribution.

 

“Garon was protecting Paseur when you talked to him, Athos,” Porthos stated. “He didn’t actually know if Paseur had done anything, but told us that Paseur was especially interested in teaching the boy a lesson.” Porthos threw a look of apology towards d’Artagnan, trying to soften the impact of his words.

 

Sensing how difficult it was becoming for Aramis and Porthos to continue explaining what had happened, Treville took up the tale. “Paseur was hoping that Garon might do or say something to implicate himself on the morning when you were preparing to leave for your mission. Although disappointed that Garon did nothing, he’d already conspired with Cellier to taint your food or drink with spindleberries. When they realized that you were leaving, Cellier fouled your water before you left. Paseur then contacted Filleul, and it was he and his men who attacked you on the road.” The Captain stopped, offering the Gascon an opportunity to process what he’d heard.

 

d’Artagnan remained silent for nearly a minute before asking, “But why? They left me my horse and most of my supplies – why would they do that?”

 

Porthos looked angry as he provided the answer. “Because they were cowards.”

 

As the expression of confusion on d’Artagnan’s face deepened, Aramis said softly, “Because they didn’t want to be accused of murder if their part in things ever came to light.”

 

The Gascon mouthed a silent “oh”, still somewhat stunned at everything he’d learned. This time it was Athos who bought the young man some time by standing and refilling everyone’s glasses, pointedly pushing d’Artagnan’s toward him and encouraging him to drink. When he drained its contents, Athos filled it once more, waiting a moment to see if his protégé was going to empty it again, and then retaking his seat when d’Artagnan left it untouched.

 

Replacing the bottle on the table, Athos looked to Treville as he asked, “I assume everyone involved has been dealt with?”

 

The Captain and Serge shared a knowing look that suggested the two men had already spoken about the topic, before the former man replied. “Filleul and his men are languishing in His Majesty’s prison, and Paseur and Cellier will get an opportunity to experience d’Artagnan’s punishments for themselves, however theirs will last for two weeks.”

 

The old cook’s wrinkled face broke out in a broad grin as he said, “I’ve got some special recipes in mind. Plus, having two extra sets of hands will let me take care of a few other chores, like cleaning and moving around the stores in the cellar.” Porthos’ and Aramis’ expressions matched Serge’s as they imagined the back-breaking labour that awaited the two traitorous Musketeers.

 

“When they’ve finished, they’ll be dispatched to the northern outpost where they’ll be patrolling the border for the next three months. With how quiet things have been up there, they’ll have plenty of time to think reflect on their actions,” Treville concluded.

 

Athos nodded slowly in approval; the men’s isolation in such a remote location would more than test their resolve to remain Musketeers. The former Comte was certain that two men who enjoyed their creature comforts as much as Paseur and Cellier did, would choose to resign rather endure what the Captain had decreed. Wordlessly, he tipped his head in thanks to Treville for his decision, confident that there would soon be two fewer men for d’Artagnan to be wary of.

 

The Captain raised his glass, intending to finish it in preparation to depart. “To your good health, gentleman,” he toasted, his gaze lingering for a moment longer on both Athos’ and d’Artagnan’s faces. The others followed suit, and within a matter of minutes, Treville and Serge were saying their goodbyes.

 

While the officer conferred with Aramis, Serge once again came close to d’Artagnan, a somewhat sheepish expression on his face. “d’Artagnan, I wanted to apologize.” The Gascon frowned in consternation, uncertain to what exactly the cook was referring. “I found out what Marcel did and wanted to let you know I never would have let things continue if I’d known. You were a hard worker, and it wasn’t my intention to make things any more difficult for you than they already were.”

 

The Gascon’s face broke out in a shy smile at Serge’s consideration. “There’s no need to apologize, Serge, and please don’t blame Marcel. He had every right to be angry with me.” The cook seemed unsure, so d’Artagnan went on. “Really, it’s fine.”

 

Watching the young man for a last, long moment, Serge finally dipped his head in agreement, whispering a soft words of thanks as he joined Treville at the door. With a final farewell, the men were gone, and seconds later the Inseparables were alone in the quiet room.

 

Aramis and Porthos exchanged questioning glances, first with one another and then with Athos, the older man giving a minute shake of his head. Receiving the unspoken message, Porthos announced, “Well, I’m tired and think I’ll be heading back to my room.” Aramis couldn’t stop the eye roll that ensued at his friend’s poor excuse, but d’Artagnan didn’t seem to notice.

 

“Very well,” the medic replied. “I’ll walk back with you so I can change your bandages.” Still, the Gascon remained unresponsive, his eyes staring unseeingly at some point on the far wall. “We’ll bring breakfast in the morning?” The questioning tone was aimed at Athos, and the older man gave a soft smile to indicate his agreement with the marksman’s suggestion.

 

Identical expressions of worry appeared on the departing men’s faces, but Athos stilled them with a look, signalling with a wave of his hand that he had things well in hand and for them to go. Aramis and Porthos swiftly gathered their things, saying goodnight, and then heading towards the door. The larger man detoured momentarily to comfortingly squeeze d’Artagnan’s shoulder first. The touch seemed to pull the Gascon from his thoughts, and he offered his friends a faint smile as they exited.

 

Athos moved around the room for a few minutes, clearing the used dishes before collecting his and d’Artagnan’s glasses, along with a bottle of wine. He brought the latter items to the chairs facing the fire, placing them on a low table before returning to grip his protégé’s arm and guiding him to a seat. He poured hefty portions into both cups and handed one to the young man, biding his time until d’Artagnan was ready to speak.

 

For several minutes, the Gascon sipped his wine, while staring into the low flames that danced in the fireplace. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and his tone sombre, reflecting how difficult the evening had been for him. “I never thought they would go that far.” Athos knew immediately that the young man was speaking of the betrayal he’d experienced at the hands of his brothers-in-arms. “I knew people were upset with me, and they made their anger obvious while I was being punished, but I never expected something like this.”

 

Athos kept his face neutral at the allusion to d’Artagnan’s week of punishment. Aramis and Porthos had stated that some members of the regiment had gone out of their way to make things more difficult for the young man, but hadn’t been able to offer anything more than generalities and hearsay. To hear the Gascon confirm their suspicions about the other Musketeers’ behaviours made his ire rise, and he had to willfully push it away. Taking a deep swallow of wine, he then placed the glass on the table and clasped his hands in his lap.

 

“d’Artagnan, what happened to you was wrong, no matter what reason those involved try to offer. We are soldiers, and more importantly, brothers-in-arms, and that requires trust; trust that the man beside you is watching your back, and is willing to do whatever is required in order to keep you safe. That means putting oneself after the needs of the Crown and those who stand beside you in the performance of your duty. It is clear through their actions that Paseur and Cellier have not learned this lesson.”

 

The Gascon’s chin hung low to his chest as he shook his head, unwilling to accept his mentor’s words. “No, everything that happened, I brought on myself. My punishment was no less than I deserved.”

 

“d’Artagnan,” Athos voice was sharp as his anger over the situation melded with his worry over the young man. The Gascon’s head snapped up abruptly at his mentor’s tone, and the older man swallowed with difficulty at the reaction. Softening his voice, he began again. “d’Artagnan, this was a series of unfortunate mistakes – mistakes that you atoned for, and I understand that you completed your assigned punishment with diligence and honour. What Paseur and Cellier did, however…” The older man trailed off, still shaken at how close he’d come to losing the Gascon. “There is no honor in attacking from the shadows.”

 

d’Artagnan observed his mentor closely, the man’s final words spoken so softly, but with such deep emotion, that they had seemed to touch the Gascon’s soul. The young man had believed that he’d been the only one affected by the two Musketeers’ actions, but it seemed that those closest to him had also suffered, and it reminded him of another time when Athos had consoled him over several glasses of wine. _“d’Artagnan, we are brothers. When one hurts, all of us hurt. When one bleeds, we all bleed.”_ Then, just like now, his mentor’s words of wisdom had provided comfort as well as insight into the brotherhood that he’d somehow managed to find himself a part of. It was, he reflected, his most prized possession.

 

The thought lingered for a moment before it was swiftly replaced by another - the memory of having his valued items ripped from him as he lay on the ground, beaten and helpless. He winced as he recalled his shame at being stripped of his pauldrons and weapons, unconsciously worrying his lower lip as his eyes dropped to his lap.

 

“d’Artagnan, are you alright?” Athos had watched as his earlier words had sunk in, lifting some of the doubt and worry that had sat so heavily on his protégé’s shoulders for so long, but the effect had been fleeting. Moments later, the strong emotions seemed to return, once more threatening to crush the young man under their weight.

 

“I…” the Gascon paused as he tried to steady his voice. He could already feel moisture pricking his eyes as he recalled the pride that had shined in his father’s eyes when he’d presented his son with the sword that had kept the younger d’Artagnan safe through so many skirmishes. Swallowing against the lump in his throat, he said, “I just wish there was some way to get back the things they took from me.”

 

With his gaze still cast downward, the young man missed the slight upturning of his mentor’s lips as the man’s eyes shifted towards a bundle propped against the side of the fireplace. Wordlessly, Athos rose and retrieved the cloth-wrapped packet, stepping in front of the Gascon and waiting until the young man looked up. “I believe these are yours,” Athos said, handing him the parcel.

 

d’Artagnan’s eyes were questioning, but the older man didn’t offer an explanation, simply returning to his seat and indicating with a nod of his head to unwrap the bundle. The Gascon’s hand trembled as he unrolled the sackcloth, revealing the three items that had been encased within. His eyes shone once more with tears as he looked over to Athos, a single word breathed out through barely parted lips. “How?”

 

“It seems that Paseur and Cellier were not only cowards, but stupid, as well. They thought it fitting to keep trophies of their revenge, and paid Filleul extra for these things to be brought to them. In this instance, I’m very glad they did,” Athos stated, no longer able to keep the smile off his face.

 

d’Artagnan’s gaze returned for a moment to the items sitting in his lap, running his fingers lightly over the etched pattern in his pauldron, and the cool steel of his sword and dagger. He’d thought them to be lost forever, and their return seemed to signal a change his fortunes, which had seemed for so long to be against him. Looking back up, he met his mentor’s gaze, now wearing a matching expression to the older man’s. “Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience in waiting an extra day for this chapter. To show my appreciation, I have an unexpected surprise - this isn't the last chapter and there will be an epilogue posted tomorrow night. Thanks for reading and thanks, as always, to AZGirl for all her help.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “d’Artagnan, I heard about last night.”

Athos had felt bad for having asked Aramis and Porthos to leave before d’Artagnan’s belongings had been returned to him, especially since the two men had played such a pivotal role in recovering the items. Fortunately, the Gascon surprised him yet again by demonstrating that he somehow knew of Aramis’ and Porthos’ actions on his behalf, and he thanked them immediately the following morning. It was a testament to the strong relationship that the men had forged that the young man didn’t even need to specify what he was thanking them for, and Aramis and Porthos had simply grinned in reply.

 

That day also marked Athos’ and d’Artagnan’s return to light duties, and Treville ensured that their assignments never left the Gascon alone, the Captain recognizing that animosity towards the young man still lingered among the ranks of the regiment. d’Artagnan did his best to ignore the sometimes pointed and very hostile stares he received, just as no one commented on the occasional appearance of a Musketeer sporting a blackened eye or bloodied nose, courtesy of the young man’s friends.

 

On the eve of their return to full duty, the Inseparables decided to celebrate by heading to a tavern; it would mark their first such outing and was meant to increase the Gascon’s confidence since they were more than likely to cross paths with others from the regiment. In truth, their return to duty scared the three friends just as much, or possibly more than it did d’Artagnan; all of them worried about the possibility of being deployed with others in their ranks who might wish the young man harm. Their outing was just as much for them as it was for the Gascon, sending a clear message to the rest of the regiment that the young man was not to be touched.

 

They picked a table in a back corner, allowing them to have walls at their backs and providing them with a full view of anyone approaching. Though it was doubtful that anyone would try anything with all four of them seated together, caution still won out. Early on, they found themselves approached by Aubert, the Musketeer moving slowly to their table, his posture non-threatening and his hands loosely swinging at his sides. “Good evening,” he greeted the foursome, and the men responded, Aramis and Athos verbally, while the other two men simply nodded, waiting for the new arrival to explain the purpose for his presence.

 

Fortunately, Aubert was a no-nonsense man and he turned his focus immediately on the Gascon. “d’Artagnan, I wanted to commend you on your conduct, both while you were assigned to me for training and during the past weeks. I have no doubt that you are a fine addition to our ranks.” With a tip of his head to the others, he withdrew, leaving the young man slightly stunned at what he’d heard. Aramis and Porthos wore matching expressions of pleasure, while Athos’ face was a mix of pride and fond amusement, d’Artagnan once again having surprised them with his mature attitude.

 

_Porthos was reaching for his horse’s bridle, while Aramis held his dagger in his hand, ready to receive the piece of tack and make some minor adjustments to the stitching._

_“No.” The voice that interrupted them was unexpected, and made both of them startle before they turned to face d’Artagnan, the young man standing several feet away with his arms crossed. “Put it back,” he said, as he looking pointedly at the bridle that Porthos now held in his hands._

_The two friends exchanged slightly confused glances before Aramis responded. “Don’t worry, d’Artagnan, it’s just some simple stitching; easily fixed.”_

_“That’s not the point; now put it back,” the Gascon repeated, his stance firm._

_“There’s no harm in it,” Porthos countered, trying to convince the young man to approve of their mischievous handiwork._

_With a huff, d’Artagnan strode forward, pulling the tack from the larger man’s hands and hanging it back in its place on the wall. “Come on,” he ordered, leading the way out of the stables and trusting that his friends would follow. He didn’t stop until they’d crossed the courtyard and stood near their usual table. He faced the two men and kept his voice low, but the steel in his tone was impossible to miss. “A few torn stitches here, some soiled hay there, but it’s alright – it’s nothing less than Paseur and Cellier deserve.” He stopped for a moment, the frown on his face deepening. “Well I’m telling you that it’s not alright.”_

_“But, d’Artagnan, I’m certain you endured something similar while you were assigned to help in the stables,” Aramis pointed out._

_“Exactly,” the Gascon spat. “The number of things that were mysteriously broken had me up until midnight some days just so I could repair the damage and avoid additional punishment. It was a shameful thing for the others to do, and because of that, I won’t stand for you doing the same to Paseur and Cellier.”_

_“You can’t possibly want to make things easier for them,” Porthos protested._

_“Of course not,” d’Artagnan replied. “But I won’t sink to seeking revenge, or have anyone else seek it on my behalf.” His voice grew even softer as he finished. “That’s what started this whole mess in the first place.”_

_The parallels between the situations was unmistakable once the Gascon had pointed them out, and Aramis and Porthos couldn’t help but nod, agreeing that they would do nothing to make the two men’s punishment worse than it already was. As d’Artagnan gave them a smile of thanks, none of them were aware of Treville’s and Aubert’s presence on the balcony above, both of whom had caught enough of the conversation to recognize the honour in the Gascon’s actions._

 

“Wonder how he knew,” Porthos mused aloud as he watched Aubert’s retreating form.

 

Aramis shrugged as he replied, “No idea, but it’s good that people are starting to come around.” Athos and d’Artagnan couldn’t help but agree; they were relieved to see that the younger man was beginning to find some allies among those in the regiment who were still disgruntled about everything that had transpired.

 

Aubert’s appearance had helped lighten the tone of their evening. Soon they were surprised to find that it was past midnight, and they’d consumed several bottles of wine throughout the night. Fortunately, the alcohol was spaced out over several hours, and none of them felt anything more than a faint warmth as a result.

 

“Time for us to head to our beds, I think,” Athos stated, rising to make his intentions clear.

 

Porthos smiled ruefully, turning away from a card game in the corner, as he agreed with the older man’s sentiment. “Wouldn’t do to make Treville mad on our first day back on full duty.” Although he was grinning as he said it, all of them knew that the Captain would be less than patient with them if they were hungover for morning muster.

 

Aramis raised an eyebrow at d’Artagnan who was the only one of their group still seated. “Coming?” he asked.

 

d’Artagnan gave an easy grin as he replied. “Go on ahead. I just want a few minutes by myself before I head back.”

 

Athos’ face turned more sombre as he asked, “Are you certain? I could wait with you.”

 

The Gascon shook his head. “No, it’s fine, Athos. I just want to relax a few minutes longer, and then I promise to head directly back to my room.” The young man held his mentor’s gaze as he silently assured him that all would be well.

 

Athos finally gave a dip of his chin, satisfied with whatever he found in the Gascon’s gaze. “Alright. We’ll see you at breakfast.”

 

True to his word, d’Artagnan stayed at the table for another fifteen minutes, savouring the last few swallows of his wine before deciding to depart. He’d been anxious when they’d arrived, due to the prospect of returning to full duty the following day and about encountering one or more of the Musketeers who still held a grudge against him, but their night had been surprisingly calming. It was enough to _almost_ make him look forward to the following day.

 

He made his way around the tables and exited into the cool night, the crisp air refreshing after the staleness inside the tavern. He’d travelled barely more than a dozen steps when voices coming from the alley alongside the bar got his attention. A part of his brain warned him to simply move along, but he’d been bored during his convalescence, and his adrenaline had spiked immediately at the thought that someone needed help. His feet quickened and brought him swiftly to the mouth of the alley, where the surrounding lanterns illuminated three men crowded around a fourth who was already on the ground.

 

d’Artagnan easily recognized the uniform of the Red Guards and announced himself, even as he closed the distance between them. “What’s going on here?” he asked in a loud, commanding voice.

 

The men turned around at once, their surprised expressions morphing almost immediately into sneers when they noted the distinctive pauldron adorning the Gascon’s shoulder. “None of your business, Musketeer; not unless you want to join your friend here.” The fourth man’s upper body and face was in shadow, making it impossible to discern his identity, but the fact that he was a fellow Musketeer was more than enough for d’Artagnan.

 

He smoothly drew his sword, and threw himself into the fray, two of the Red Guards meeting the Gascon’s blade with their own. During his recovery, d’Artagnan had been forced to limit his physical activity, lest one of his broken ribs shifted. That had left him with more hours than he cared to count to work on his forms, and the practice he’d had was now paying off, as he easily parried and blocked the strikes aimed at him. While he was engaged with the two men, the Musketeer on the ground had taken advantage of the distraction to pull his dagger, thrusting it into the leg of the third soldier.

 

The Red Guard’s cry caught the attention of another, and d’Artagnan took advantage and struck him in the head with the pommel of his sword. When his remaining opponent saw his two comrades defeated and on the ground, he acted in true Red Guard fashion and ran down the alley, planning to exit from the other end. With an amused snort, d’Artagnan sheathed his sword, extending a hand to the Musketeer on the ground. As he pulled the beaten man to his feet, the Gascon finally got a proper look at the man’s face – Garon.

 

The Musketeer’s face showed obvious signs of the abuse he’d suffered at his attackers’ hands, and he looked both wary and uncomfortable as he stared at his rescuer’s face. Hiding his shock, d’Artagnan took a step back to give the other man some space. “Are you alright?” the Gascon asked.

 

Garon gave a shaky nod, aborting the movement a moment later when it exaggerated the throbbing in his head. “Yes,” he replied, still uncertain what to expect given his part in protecting those who’d conspired against the Gascon. “Why,” he began, his voice trembling. Garon paused, attempting to pull himself together before trying again. “Why did you help me?”

 

d’Artagnan considered the man for only a heartbeat before he answered, “Because it was the right thing to do.” Tipping his head, he said, “Good night.” He turned and began to walk away, when Garon’s voice stopped him.

 

“d’Artagnan.” The young man looked back at the Musketeer, waiting to hear what the other man had to say. “Thank you,” Garon finished softly.

 

The Gascon nodded, this time with a hint of a smile on his face, before resuming the journey back to his room.

* * *

His anxiety from the previous night had returned, and d’Artagnan stared at the garrison gates for several long moments before steeling himself enough to enter. As expected, he received cool nods from the men guarding the gate, but forced himself to stand tall and continue walking confidently toward the Inseparables’ usual table.

 

As he continued to move through the courtyard, he began to sense that something had changed, and some of the glances in his direction held a modicum less hostility than in the past. The feeling was odd and unexpected, and d’Artagnan found himself having to focus far more than normal on maintaining his casual outward demeanor. He’d nearly reached the table when it happened, and he found himself immediately on his guard, wondering if anyone would actually be so bold as to attack him out in the open.

 

Rodier's gaze was pinned firmly on the Gascon, making the young man tense as he recalled the taunts the other man had thrown at him as he’d trained under Aubert’s tutelage. By the time that Rodier finally came to a stop in front of the young man, d’Artagnan’s hands were sweaty and clenched tightly into fists, as he waited for the inevitable to happen. The Musketeer looked at him for several moments and the Gascon prayed that the man couldn’t hear how quickly his heart was pounding in his chest. Finally, the silence between them was broken. “d’Artagnan, I heard about last night.” The young man waited for Rodier to find fault with his actions, leaving him with some excuse to lash out. “Good work,” the Musketeer said before turning and walking away.

 

d’Artagnan’s knees were weak as Rodier’s words echoed in his head, and he fumbled blindly for the table, easing himself to the seat before embarrassing himself by crumpling to the ground. Stunned, his vacant gaze scanned the area for his friends, eventually settling on Garon, who stood on the opposite side of the wide courtyard. As their eyes met, the other man nodded, and something in d’Artagnan’s chest eased. A minute later, his friends arrived and took their seats, the conversation between Aramis and Porthos already in full swing. As d’Artagnan relished the comfort of their familiar banter, he realized that his actions the previous night might have had a ripple effect, causing some of the other Musketeers to revise their poor judgement of him. With a soft smile on his lips, he acknowledged that confronting the Red Guards was not another unfortunate mistake and that, perhaps, things would be alright after all.

 

End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who read this story, and special thanks to those of you who commented and left kudos, as it was wonderful to be able to see the reactions to this fic. Thanks also to AZGirl who offered a great deal of invaluable advice and encouragement, and was willing to proof chapters on my sometimes very crazy schedule.
> 
> I hope to be back with something new in a couple months, and hope you'll give it a try. Until then, have a happy and healthy holiday season and I'll see you in the new year!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Punishing Mistakes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8732191) by [AZGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AZGirl/pseuds/AZGirl)




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